


Shield of shame

by withah



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Guilt, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Oral Sex, Present Tense, Redemption, References to Depression, References to Drugs, Romance, Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-10-30 07:06:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 44,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10871610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withah/pseuds/withah
Summary: Raleigh Samson thought his life was over when Evelyn Trevelyan and her Inquisition took him captive. But a year after Corypheus's defeat, they're sleeping together. It's just body parts, lust, a game of power. It's nothing romantic. There are no feelings. Until it is and there are.--This redemption story is more romance than smut, but since it's told from Samson's perspective leaving out the smut would have felt disingenuous. I've marked off the smut pieces so they're easy for more sensitive readers to skip.





	1. Chapter 1

 

The first time he takes her is on the war table.

Pieces and markers scatter as primal need drives him into her. It’s not love. It’s not even desire. One moment arguing, her face red with frustration, the next he’s pressing her against the wall. Her lips find his. Or his find hers. One urgent desperate kiss and then no more kissing. No more tenderness. Only ragged breathing and fingernails and teeth.  
She hates him, and he knows it.  
But he’s the only one who would dare do this without expecting anything in return.  
To them she is the Inquisitor, a paragon of virtue, a hero in shining armour. They will acquiesce to her every wish, no matter how foolish.  
But he will not. He has no pride and no reason to impress her. He speaks to her in blunt sentences and refuses to kowtow.  
She is of the Chantry and with every thrust he defiles her.

When it’s done, she dresses without looking at him. He leers. Her sandy hair is a mess. Her features, once smooth and delicate, are scarred by battles now past. It’s been a year since she’s used her mark, and now she wears it hidden beneath a nugskin glove. His eyes trail from her face to her body. He tries to feel some triumph in the act they’ve just performed, in his domination of her. But as he stands before her, manhood bared, it’s not pride but shame that creeps along his skin. She is not of the Chantry. Her title may be, but she was once a prisoner, a slave as he was. She is no Herald and never claimed to be. She is just a mage that found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time. He shrinks from her. But she does not notice. She scurries for the door without a backwards glance.

He worries whether he’s hurt her.

Then curses the thought and tugs on his breeches.

The second time is different but the same. She finds him in the dim, dank, room they’ve given him that is little better than his cell was. He’s reading. Some trash not worth the paper it’s printed on. She closes the door behind her, wordless. And she starts to undress.  
He watches without moving, breath catching even as he forces it to remain even. He will not show her desire, he decides. He will not reassure her. Let her feel shamed by his gaze.  
But his tongue darts out to wet his lips and he grows despite himself as she sheds her breast band.  
Then she waits. The final move must be his.  
Doubt flicks across her features so fast he almost misses it. Her body reacts to the cold. Tiny prickles of raised flesh. She folds her arms across her breasts.  
“No,” he says.  
The syllable hangs in the room between them. She obeys, dropping her arms to her side and he feels powerful.  
How many of his commands will she obey?  
“On your knees,” he says. The words stick in his throat and emerge like gravel.  
For a moment he thinks she will not move. And then she does.  
He unlaces himself before he thinks better of it.

From then on it starts the same. Sometimes she comes to him. Sometimes he goes to her. First she must be naked, exposed. And then she must be demeaned. And she takes it, like she takes his head in her mouth. Silently, without complaint.

One night, in her quarters not his, he makes her strip on the balcony. She exposes herself to the mountains and it makes him hard. But when she enters the room again she is shivering, teeth chattering. And when he enters her, he wraps her in his arms to keep her warm.

It’s not that night, but a few nights later, when he’s getting up to leave and she snags his hand.  
“Stay.”  
He’s never stayed before. Their trysts are quick and dirty and never acknowledged. She hates him, and he is her prisoner. Except for sometimes, in the late hours of the night, when she is his. He’s tied her up before, he’s made her beg. And he knew without asking that was what she needed. To give someone else control, if only for a few hours. She didn’t ask for command of the world, not like his previous master. And some days it gets too much. Those are the days she kneels before him.  
But this night she wants more. Her hand, wrapped around his, and a word. More than she’s ever said while naked within his reach.  
He lies back down, for once obeying her.  
Her blankets are soft and smell like her. An Orlesian bed, with drapes and silk and posts that he’s tied her to. He’s never slept in a bed such as this. It’s too big and too soft. But he pretends, for her.

Some time in the night, she starts thrashing. She cries out, “No, stop!” She whimpers. In the dim light of the dying fire, he sees her face contort. He has seen many expressions play upon that face in the last weeks, but none has struck him like this one.  
“Shhh,” he cannot bear it. He wakes her with a soft touch against her cheek. “It’s all right. You’re safe.”  
Her eyelashes part and she’s staring up at him. “Raleigh.”  
She’s never used his name before. When she’s needed to speak of him, she’s called him Samson like the others do.

He leans down and kisses her.

The tenderness surprises him as much as it surprises her. But she responds. Her lips are soft and willing and warmth blossoms in his chest. He knows he’s crossing the line. This breaks every unspoken rule they have. And yet he moves himself between her legs and continues to kiss her. Her lips, her chin, her neck, her breast bone. He’s covering her in kisses and he can’t stop himself. And her hands are tangling through his hair and she’s arching her back for him.

 This isn’t like anything they’ve done before. He enters her slowly. His aim is pleasure and comfort, not domination. And she is not silent. This time she moans his name. Her arms wrap around him and she presses herself close. His tongue explores her as if he’s never tasted her before.  
He’s emptied himself into her countless times, but never once has it felt like his whole existence crashing down on him. Lights explode behind his eyes.  
“Oh, sweet Maker.”  
And he’s lost. He knows it then. He’s lost to her and he never saw it coming.  
She’s looking up at him again. Her eyes hold questions he has no answer to. So he kisses them away.

He wakes in the first cold rays of another morning. She’s still asleep, the smooth curve of her back turned to him. He is frightened of it, of what it arouses in him. Not base hunger but something else. He wants to cover it in warmth, or in more kisses.

 He hurries from the room before he can do either.

Cullen notices he’s not himself. Cullen notices everything.  
“Something the matter?”  
They’ve started sparring again, something they used to do in Kirkwall, before it all went to shit.  
He owes Cullen his life. They both know it. They both resent it, at least on some level.  
But for the most part, it’s unacknowledged. Cullen, his interrogator, became his counselor, became his friend.  
Samson shrugs. He’s too rattled to try dishonesty. “Women.”  
And Cullen chuckles. “I wish I could offer some advice. Unfortunately, I can’t even get them to notice I exist.”  
It’s a lie of course. All the women notice he exists. He is perfect in every way Samson is not. All the women would gladly bed him, except one.  
Cullen has had his eye on the Inquisitor for years.  
The thought is uncomfortable. Samson bares his sword. “Shall we?”

She is waiting for him in the corridor, back against the wall. Her eyes don’t quite meet his.  
“I was hoping we could talk.”  
He is sweaty and breathless. Cullen passes, greeting the Inquisitor with a shy smile and Samson feels at once self-conscious. His hair hasn’t quite grown back from his time on the red stuff. He has the hairline of a man twice his age. What hair he has is long and dank. His teeth are crooked, his nose too pointed.  
He swallows. “What about?”  
Her eyes dart past his lips to settle somewhere above his head. “Need I say?”  
They crossed a line. They broke the rules. She wants to set things straight.  
“Alright,” he says.  
Part of him dreads it, but a greater part yearns for clarity.  
He follows her up to her room.

Behind the closed door she sighs. Her gaze finally meets his.  
They’re in the narrow space at the base of the stairs and he wants to press her against the wall. That would be easier.  
“I’m sorry I woke you last night.”  
He shakes his head. “That’s not what you wanted to speak about.”  
“No.” She folds her arms.  
“What do you want, Inquisitor?”  
“My name’s Evelyn.”  
He moves away from her, up the stairs. “Ah, we’re on a first name basis now, are we?”  
As long as he’s not facing her, he can pull off the cool demeanor.  
After a beat, he hears her follow.  
“You know as well as I do, _Evelyn_ , that this can never be anything.” He focuses his gaze on the cold mountains outside. “For one thing, you’d be crucified if anyone found out. Especially now. Your enemy is a year dead. The sky is healed. They’re already beginning to question your power.”  
She doesn’t speak. His words were too harsh. He closes his eyes and draws a breath. Then, face carefully controlled, he turns to face her.  
She’s standing in front of the bed, arms still folded. She’s looking at her feet.  
“If you want someone to hold you tight, and comfort you while you sleep, speak to Cullen. The man would walk behind you on a leash if only you asked him. Everyone can see how he dotes on you. He’s stable, honorable. A regular prince charming. Hell, marry him and find something dirty on the side. That’s what most women in your position would do.”  
He waits for her response, hardly daring to breathe. He knows he’s right, but he’s hoping she’ll tell him he’s wrong. A crease forms between her eyebrows. Then she looks up.  
“I don’t want Cullen,” she says.  
“What _do_ you want?”  
The answer is obvious. It became obvious last night. And it’s there in her gaze.  
“I can’t offer you anything.” His voice is an embarrassing whisper.  
He remembers the night he held her against his warmth as she rubs her arms. She isn’t cold. It’s something else. The words she wants to say are stuck.  
“What do you want?” he repeats.  
“You.” It is so soft he almost doesn’t believe it.  
His heart trips. He feels it fall. There is a surreal quality to everything as she stands gazing at her feet again, as a breeze catches loose tendrils of her hair. It’s a trick. It’s some bizarre game.  
She’s confused.  
He chuckles. “No, you don’t.” He closes in on her, falling into a familiar role. “You don’t want me. You want the freedom I offer.” He flicks hair aside to take her chin in his hand. “It’s addictive, isn’t it? You can shrug off the mantle when we’re together, when I make you cum.”  
He’s purposefully lewd, willing to continue. But she pulls free and kisses him.

His senses come alive as he loses them. He cannot think of anything but  how good she feels. He drives her backwards, up onto her desk.  
This is familiar territory. His hands know what to do. She tears at his clothing and he wants, needs, to let her.  
It takes everything in him to pull away. He stumbles backwards, breathing heavily. His shirt is open.  
“No,” he says.  
She’s beautiful. Backlit by the large windows. Her scarf is hanging loose, her lips are red and waiting. She’s puzzled by this new development.  
He rakes a hand through his hair.  
His insides are squirming. It’s a gamble, a bet. The biggest he’s ever made. That time in the Hanged Man when he bet a month’s supply of lyrium, he’d wanted to throw up. That had nothing on this.  
_You’re being a fool._  
_If she’s too blind to tell lust from love, let her pretend. Take everything she’s willing to give. Sleep in her silken sheets and bosom. Make her pamper you. Be her pet._  
“All you know of me is this,” he says, gesturing to his half naked body. “This and the creature I was when you had me brought here.”  
And perhaps he is no more than a combination of those things. But she has a right to discover that.  
“If you want a warm body to take you out of yourself, that I can provide. But do not claim it is me you want.”  
“Something happened last night,” she responds. “You can’t pretend it didn’t.”  
He could. But he doesn’t want to.  
His mouth is dry. “No sex.”  
“I’m sorry?” She doesn’t understand. Of course she doesn’t. He can’t even explain it to himself. Is it she who wants more or is it him?  
“Three months. If you still want me after three months without our little games, I’ll believe you.”  
She’s staring at him and he feels a different kind of naked.  
“Am I allowed to see you during this time?”  
“That would be sort of the point.” Why does he sound like a pathetic virgin now? Some Chantry boy. It’s the kind of thing Cullen might suggest.  
She raises her eyebrows. “You wish to court me?”  
“Is the thought so ridiculous?”  
She slips off the desk. “But you said this could never… just now. Something about crucifixion?”  
“I didn’t say anyone had to know. If we can shag in secret, can we not… talk in secret too?”  
_Talk_. Sweet Andraste. What has become of him?  
He expects her to start laughing, but she does not.  
“Is kissing allowed?”  
He can’t quite suppress his smile. “Depends where.”


	2. Chapter 2

First he attempts a picnic. He feels silly. Aside from the snow and the icy wind, it’s too much like playing at a kind of normal he doesn’t know how to be. She sees his hand shaking as he pours the wine, asks if it’s withdrawal. No, he says, he’s past withdrawal. He confesses he’s never done anything like this before.

She asks if he’s ever been in a relationship.  
The question catches him off guard.  
“Depends. How do you define a ‘relationship’?”  
The corner of her mouth rises as she answers, “More than just physical.”  
“No.” His answer is simple and honest. He passes her her drink. “And you, Lady Inquisitor?”

 She stares into her wine. “One. In the Circle. With a Templar.”  
“You seem to have a type,” he jokes.  
A ghost of a smile crosses her lips, but he realises by her silence that he’s made a faux pas. He downs the contents of his cup.  
“He was much older,” she explains. “I was still very young.”  
“ _How_ young?”  The question is out before he can stop himself. He’s heard stories about the kinds of things done to young mages, children with no power to say no. He dreads her answer.  
“Sixteen,” she says.  
It’s bad, but not as bad as he feared. “What happened, may I ask?”  
She swirls her wine, eyes still downcast. “He got another mage pregnant.”  
There’s nothing to say to that. Samson downs more wine, straight from the bottle this time.  
“There were other... dalliances since then,” she shrugs. “Nothing serious.”

“Your Circle must have been more liberal than mine if you could get away with dalliances.”  
“They were discrete.”  
“Still. Even passing love letters was a crime where I come from.”  
“Maddox?” She asks.  
“Yes”. He realises she knows the story. “Cullen told you?”  
She nods, taking the wine from him to have a swig. “No details, though. What happened?”

“I should never have gotten involved.” He could stop there, but the story will fill the silence. “I did favours for the mages from time to time. Maddox had a sweetheart out in the town. He was a good man, a friend even perhaps. The mages in Kirkwall, they had no voice and no hope. They were treated as criminals. Their world was cold and dark. What was the harm in allowing him a little warmth? He begged me for help, said he couldn’t live without her. It was a small task and it brought them so much joy. You know what happened next. I was caught. He was caught. And then I was begging on the streets, taking coin to hide mages from the Circle, scraping together whatever lyrium dust I could, and then…”

“Corypheus”

“Yes”

They sit in awkward silence

Abruptly, he rises. “This isn’t going to work, this was a stupid idea.”  
She scrambles after him. “Raleigh, wait.”  
He wants nothing but to get away. Away from her, away from his shame. But she needs to understand. He turns on her. “I almost killed you. I would have, gladly. And more. “  
“You’re not that man anymore.”  
“Aren’t I?” He challenges  
Her gaze is hard as the marble floor of his Templar quarters. “If Corypheus returned right now, would you follow him again?” she asks.  
He stares at her, words forming and then disintegrating. She is perplexed by his confusion and each moment he doesn’t answer, she slips further away from him.  
“It’s not that simple,” he says to fill the silence.  
“I’d say it is.” Tone as hard as her gaze. “Would you or wouldn’t you?”  
“If you’d asked me this a few days ago, I would have without question.”  
“What’s changed?”  
“You know what’s changed.”  
Waking up with her warm body curled against his. The way she moaned his name in the night and how she held him like she really wanted him there. _Him._ He wants to say that in that moment everything changed. He would burn the world for her if she bid it. But he doesn’t. He holds her gaze until she speaks.  
“That’s it? The rest of the world can die? Or become red horrors? You still believe that is the right thing, after all this time?”  
“You don’t understand.” And he wants her to.   
It didn’t matter before, when she was sitting in judgement. It didn’t matter that she thought him a monster. It didn’t matter that her lip would curl in revulsion whenever she saw him after that. But it matters now.    
“Life is pain,” he says.” Maybe not for you in your liberal Circle or your fancy Inquisition apartments, but for most of us. Life is scrounging for a shred of happiness amidst shit and despair. Those of us lucky enough to be useful are drained and discarded. The rest are left to fester like an open wound…”  
He stops, realising he’s ranting like a lunatic.  
“I didn’t do what I did to hurt anyone. I did it to save them.”  
“The quarry, in Sahrnia…” she starts.  
“Don't.”  
She moves closer, her chin tilted upward, defiantly. “Your _garden._ Taking people from their families, their loved ones -”  
“Love is pain. What happened there spared them.”  
And then she’s gone. He’s lost her. She’s gathering up the basket and the blanket. “Then we have nothing else to talk about.”

Heart in his throat, he snags her arm. “They were starving to death, cut off by a foolish political war that amounted to nothing more than a pissing contest. They were dying. All of them. We gave them new life, we gave them invincibility. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be that hungry? So hungry that your body begins to devour itself? I do. I’ve been there. On the streets of Kirkwall… I would have died were it not for Corypheus. So, he used me. I’ve always been used. But while he was using me, I had the chance to help. I freed them. I gave them strength… I did what I could. And I know you could never approve or even accept what I did. But I have to be honest with you. And if you need to hate me for it, that’s your right.”

He realises there is nothing more he can say. He turns and walks away.  She does not follow.


	3. Chapter 3

His sword clashes into Cullen’s with a little more force than necessary. The Commander stumbles backwards. He’s panting already, a sheen of sweat above his brow.

Samson hates him.

On the inside they’re the same, but the world would never see that. Cullen’s rebellion came at the right time, in the right way. As with everything, he followed a more proper procedure. Mutiny at the final moment when there’s very little risk. Quit the Chantry by flying into the arms of Thedas’s next great power. He is loved for his insurrection.

He, too, has hands covered in blood. And those hands reach far.  
But no one acknowledges it. His murder is in the name of righteous order.

Samson hates him, and yet he’s the best friend that Samson has.

“I take it things are not going well with your lady friend,” Cullen comments.  
Samson swings. Cullen blocks.

It’s been two days since he’s seen her.  
His foolish gamble. What possessed him? What did he expect? That she would understand? That she could, what, love him?

“I was an idiot,” he tells Cullen. “But what else is new?”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. Love makes fools of all of us.”

“What would you know of it?”

He remembers what Cullen was like when he first came to Kirkwall. He didn’t sleep. He jumped at every small sound. He spoke only when spoken to. Unless he was ranting about the dangers of magic. Then he could drone on for hours.  
If love found him in Kirkwall, it was in some dark alley and paid for with silver.

But Cullen takes the comment in his stride. “I’ve had my fair share of infatuations.”

Interesting choice of words. Samson is about to respond when Cullen’s face pales even further. He looks as if the air’s been knocked out of him. Samson turns to follow his line of sight. And he imagines his reaction is much the same. She’s standing in the doorway. How long she’s been there, neither of them could guess.

“Can I borrow Samson for a minute?” she asks Cullen, now she has his attention.  
He nods, clears his throat. “Yes, of course.”  
Samson’s heartbeat is drumming in his ears as he approaches her. Her expression reveals nothing.

They’re half way down the corridor before she speaks. “Sorry to pull you away. But if we don’t leave now, we won’t make it in time.”  
“Make it in time?” he repeats dumbly.  
She smiles, eyes darting briefly to his. “It’s a surprise.”

 

The horses are ready, but he’s self-conscious riding out of the gates with her. Surely people will talk? She seems unconcerned.

He thinks perhaps she’s taking him down to the lake. Or into the forest. But they continue to ride. Skyhold disappears into the distance, a speck up in the mountains, and he is frightened. He’s never liked surprises, but then they’ve never been anything pleasant.

Turns out, there’s a tourney on in Rainesfere. It’s a dusty little town with a few cobbled streets in the shadow of the Frostbacks. They arrive in the late afternoon, in time for the jousts, and she’s flushed with excitement.

They leave their horses at the only inn, where she reserves two rooms and pays upfront.  In the stands, with the common folk, she wears her hood up and her hand hidden. He sits beside her, watches her get caught up in the excitement, tries to ignore the pervasive smell of manure. He’s waiting to find out why he’s there, why she’s brought him all this way to watch a bunch of nobodies unseat each other. She told him they had nothing more to talk about, and they haven’t spoken. The two rooms at the inn lurk at the forefront of his mind. She means to spend the night here. Perhaps she requires his assistance with a dirty deal, or deed, she dare not bring anyone else along for. Perhaps he is the dirty deal and deed. But there are two rooms. It nags at him.

There is food he doesn’t eat, and drink he doesn’t taste. Afterwards she wants to know what he thought of the competitors and he can’t remember.

“Why am I here?” he asks her.  
They’re walking through one of the unfamiliar streets. Night is falling, shadows pool. He cannot see her expression clearly.  
“What do you mean?”  
He growls. He’s been patient all day and he’s starting to lose control. “What now? What’s the plan?”  
“The plan is we return to the inn and sleep, head back to Skyhold in the morning. I didn’t think it was safe to travel those mountain paths tonight. But we can go back now if you’d rather?”  
“That’s it?”  
She seems to stiffen, it’s difficult to tell in the dim light. “What were you expecting?”  
“An explanation for starters. If you wanted an escort, fine. But I don’t appreciate being kept in the dark.”  
“I didn’t want an escort.”  
“Well, what _did_ you want?”  
She glowers at him in the quiet street.  
“I thought you were done with me,” he says.  
For a time, they walk in silence. The steps are measured by his pounding heart. Eventually, she speaks. “I… I don’t know how I feel about everything you said. But I know that being with you is the only time I feel like I can just be... Evelyn.”  
It is as he suspected. “Do you even like me?”  
“I… parts of you.”  
He laughs, caught off guard by her honesty. “Let me guess. Tongue, fingers and -”  
“That’s not what I meant.” She stops, turns to him. “Sometimes I look at you and I see someone I could… someone I could love.”  
She chokes on the word. His stomach lurches.  
“But then it’s like the light changes and... “ she leaves the sentence to trail and it’s filled with filth and red lyrium and Corypheus.  
“And I disgust you.”  
  
She doesn’t get the chance to confirm it. The street urchins swarm out of nowhere. They’re instantly surrounded.  
“Aw look at this, tourists,” the tallest of their number, a grubby boy with missing front teeth says in a thick Ferelden accent. “Don’t get many of ‘em around here.”  
Samson draws his blade. But he knows they’re outnumbered.  
“Sod off,” he says with false bravado as he steps in front of the Inquisitor. He holds out his arms, as if he can shield her.  
The urchins advance. “But we’re so hungry,” another says. “Surely you can spare some coin?”  
“Nice clean folks like you.”  
“Some silver for the hungry.”  
Samson knows their type. They’re like wild dogs. One flash of a coin and they’ll tear you to shreds.  
He sneers. “Crawl back to your mothers’ tits. You’re too young to die by this sword.”  
“That the best you can do?” The leader challenges. “Boys, I’d call that an invitation.”  
They have a practiced routine, clearly. They divide and conquer. Three of them leap at Samson and while he’s slashing and kicking, he realises just as many have assaulted _her_.  
She screams. But not in fear. It’s a battle cry. Fire erupts from the ground beneath them. Then lighting hits the leader and jumps between him and his gang. They cry out. Some scurry away, shouting, “Mage!”  
They didn’t recognise her as one without her staff.  
It looks as if the remaining will put up a fight and Samson wants them to. His blood is pumping. But they turn and run.  
Evelyn collapses onto her knees.

A steel spear of fear pierces Samson as he drops down beside her. She’s bleeding. Even in the weak light, he can see she’s clutching her left arm.  
“It’s all right. It’s not deep.” She struggles to her feet and he wraps an arm around her waist.  
“We should get help. An apothecary -”  
“No, I’m fine. Let’s get to the inn.”  
She seems to recover a bit as they walk. She must have drained a lot of energy performing magic like that without a staff.

 At the inn, Samson gets her a seat and goes to enquire about the rooms. His conversation with the innkeeper includes a request for an injury kit and a refund for the second room. They’ll only need one.

Upstairs, he tears her sleeve to gain access to the cut. Once it’s cleaned, it doesn’t seem too bad.  
“So much for showing you the world’s worth saving.” She sighs.  
He looks up into her face. She doesn’t meet his eyes.  
There’s a small jar of salve that he spreads over the cut. She hisses but doesn’t complain.  
“So, that’s what all this is about?” he asks.  
“What did you think it was about?”  
“I thought you really liked jousting.”  
She laughs and it’s like trickling water. He’s never heard her laugh other than a sardonic chuckle. He finds himself smiling.  
“Don’t _you_ like jousting?” she asks. “I thought all men liked jousting?”  
“I can think of a few more enjoyable ways to poke large sticks at people.”  
She eyes him and he waits. His “stick” isn’t particularly large. He knows it. He’s waiting for her reminder, but none comes. Eventually he returns his attention to her arm. He’s almost done.  
“I was certain I’d reserved two rooms,” she says.    
His stomach clenches. “You did.”  
He reaches into a pocket and withdraws the refund. Wordlessly, he places it beside the bed.  
“Raleigh…”  
He knows she thinks he means to break the three month rule. But what he doesn't know is whether that’s more shameful than the truth.  
“You’re the Inquisitor,” he says.  
Her brow furrows. She doesn’t follow his meaning. He’s going to have to say it. “I can’t very well leave you alone in a place like this.”  
She blinks. His answer is clearly so different from what she expected that it’s startled her. He pulls the bandage tight and moves away. 

First he checks the windows. There’s a ledge outside, might be dangerous. He closes the shutters and locks the windows. Then he checks the door. Cheap hinges. He won’t be sleeping tonight. No ways will they catch him unawares.  
“You honestly expect someone to attack us here?”  
_You_ , he mentally corrects her. _No one gives a shit about me. You’re valuable._  
“I’d rather not risk it.”  
She leans forward to unlace her boots. “It’s the lyrium, isn’t it? It’s left you paranoid.”  
Heat surges, a temper he’s always struggled with. He literally bites his tongue, waiting until the burning passes before speaking. “Do you honestly not realise how precious you are?”  
His choice of words is clumsy he marches across the room to cover them. “All it takes is one more vagabond with a knife and Thedas loses its hero. I will not be responsible for that.”  
The irony of him saying those word after their history is not lost in him.  
She cocks her head and he expects her to comment on the fact. But once again she surprises him. “This isn’t your fault.”  
“What?”  
She gestures to the bandage. “I let down my guard. I’ve been locked up in that fortress too long. A year ago, they would have been dead before they got within a hundred feet of us.”  
“Someone like you shouldn’t have to protect herself.”  
“I prefer it that way.”  
“Then you need to do a better job of it.”  
“I know.”  
He realises he’s glaring at her and looks away.  
“It’s not the lyrium,” he admits. “It was Kirkwall. That made me paranoid.”

When you’re that poor, when you’re that desperate, every scrap you have is challenged by someone just as poor and just as desperate but stronger. He’s been jolted from sleep too many times by someone rifling through his pockets. He’s been held up against dark walls with a knife to his throat. Sometimes they’ve wanted more than _things_. He’s always escaped. Templar training was good for something at least. But he will never see the world the same way again. He cannot tell her these things, but her look softens and he thinks she might understand.

 

They lie facing each other on the lumpy bed that she doesn’t complain about. The fact surprises him until he remembers she spent a year living in tents while fighting his previous master. She falls asleep easily. Light and sound pour through the shutters as revels go on in the streets. He watches her breathe and he counts her scars. He’s admiring an impressive one across the bridge of her nose when he realises with a jolt where it came from.

He was twice the size, drunk on power and rage and red lyrium. He swung down wildly and his blow landed. He remembers the feeling of victory as she stumbled backwards, reeling, clinging to consciousness. Her face was a bloody mess. One more blow like that would have ended her. He’d wanted to kill her. Everything in him had wanted to see her life drain away.

Now he cannot breath. A whimper escapes his lips as he touches the mark that his blade left.

She asked him about regret. He didn’t regret following Corypheus. But he regrets this.

She wakens. He always thought her eyes were a standard drab brown, but now he sees flecks of gold around the pupils. He continues to trace her scars. He wants to tell her sorry, he doesn’t know how. Words are inadequate.

He’s spent so much time in and on her body, yet he hardly knows it. There is something Meredith about her -  the hair, the chin - but she’s not Meredith. All the time he has hated her, he has hated someone else.

He trails his fingers from her nose, across her cheek, over the torn top of her ear. Something sliced into her neck once, and he doesn’t think this one is him.  
“Dragon,” she says as he touches the jagged white scar.  
“That must have made Cullen happy.”  
It would have been amusing if their mighty Inquisitor had fallen to a mere beast. Probably less so for the Commander. She snorts.  
The other scars are on her arms. And perhaps now she’ll have a new one, although he hopes the urchin’s knife didn’t go that deep.

Her breath is starting to quicken as his feather-light touches brush her skin. He turns her arm to reach the more sensitive place inside her elbow, grins at her soft moan. It’s a game now, he’s distracted from his guilt. He teases down the inside of her wrist until he reaches the nugskin glove. He pinches a finger, starts to slide it off.

“No, don’t.”

It’s too late. He sees what she’s been hiding, even as she curls her hand closed. The mark has spread.  
“Who knows about this?” He asks quietly. The anchor lights the room. Green cuts through small gaps between her fingers.   
“Solas warned me it would happen eventually. There’s no point in worrying anyone.”  
“How quickly?”  
She opens her hand for him. “It’s taken a year to get this far.”

He remembers it as a stripe. She used it on him that day he gave her her scar. He was paralysed, raw emerald energy sending jolt after jolt through his armor, through his bones, as her companions struck him again and again. But now the mark is like a cut that has festered. The centre shines bright white. It hurts to look at. But around it, tendrils of green curl beneath her skin. It’s a pattern somewhere between shattered glass and the raised veins of Corypheus’s face and it reaches down almost to her wrist. 

“Does it hurt?”  
“Sometimes.”  
Her features are lit green and she looks sad. He knows why, he knows what it means. He was there the day that the Elder One tried to remove it and found he could not. It is a part of her and eventually it will consume her.

He kisses her palm. The light tingles against his lips, but it doesn’t quite distract him from the sensation that something slimy is twisting in his gut. This moment, here with her, feels suddenly fragile. He wishes he hadn’t removed the glove.

Instinctively, he turns her in his arms, so she’s wrapped tight, hugged to his chest.

 _What am I doing?_ He’s embarrassed. He nuzzles into her neck and thrusts against her. He gropes for her breasts. This isn’t what he wants. He doesn’t want to break their agreement. But he’d rather that, he’d rather anything, than feel so vulnerable.  
“Raleigh, stop.”  
He freezes, hand still reaching under her clothes, head still buried in her hair. He’s done unspeakable things to her before and she’s never asked him to stop.  
“It’s alright,” she assures him.  
She takes the hand from under her shirt and holds it. Now he can feel the prickle of the Fade against his palm. It’s surprisingly pleasant. As is this. The simple act of holding hands.  
Her breathing evens out, and he closes his eyes.

 

When morning comes, it takes him by surprise. He didn’t intend to fall asleep, but then there’s pools of golden sunlight along the dusty floor and she’s stirring. She’s warm and sleepy and curled up in his arms and he feels ashamed.

He sits up, ruffles his hair, tries to sort through emotions he doesn’t understand.  
He becomes aware of her eyes on him.  
“What should I expect when we return?” He asks. “Will I be arrested for abducting you?”  
Right now he should be sparring with Cullen. But he imagines the man is pacing the ramparts, ordering his men out to look for her.  
“Leliana knows where I am. She’ll think of something appropriate.”  
Telling her was likely a wise course of action, the spymaster would have found them anyway.  
“We should probably leave. If we’re to make it back before nightfall,” he says.  
She rises and he can see she’s concerned. He doesn’t know what to do. This is a dance he doesn’t know the steps to. He doesn’t belong here. This room is too full of light and lo… love.

Love.

_Shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I need to put a disclaimer here to say that *I* do not think those horrible things about poor Cullen. 
> 
> Also, I suck at tagging so if you can think of any tags I should add for this story please suggest in the comments? :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely people :) I'm struggling a bit with spacing. Which works better for you, the compact spacing of the last few chapters or this (which is how things are automatically spaced when I paste form Google Docs)?

He stands before the entire council. 

“No.”

It’s a little like that day they dragged him out of his cell to judge him. Except then he was so deep into lyrium withdrawal he was hardly conscious. 

Now he’s aware of everything. The markers on the war table glitter. Sunshine streaks the flagstone floor and the standards cast tall shadows. 

She is at the centre, the light through the window making a golden halo of her blonde hair.  Cullen glowers to her right, Leliana to her left. The ambassador’s quill scratches as she takes down his answer for the records. 

They want him to go to Sahrnia with an Inquisition goodwill delegation. Rub his nose in his greatest affront. For what purpose? He can’t undo what was done there, even if he wants to. 

“Then you’re a coward,” Cullen says. 

The Commander’s been tetchy since they returned from Rainesfere. What Samson wouldn’t give to tell him what they’ve done on this very table. Take him down a peg. 

He has a retort on his tongue, but she speaks first. 

“It’s his choice.” 

And he sees her expression. She’s disappointed. 

And he remembers her words. 

_ “Sometimes I look at you and I see someone I could love. But then it’s like the light changes and... “  _

_ “And I disgust you.” _   


He’s hardly spoken to her since they got back. His choice. He’s been avoiding her and she hasn’t pursued. Perhaps she thinks it’s the mark that’s frightened him, the knowledge she’s dying. 

He’s dying too. It’s not that. 

It’s the room with the light and the warmth and her hand in his. 

He doesn’t know how to move forward. It’s so much, so overwhelmingly bigger than him. 

“No, wait,” he says. Because he can’t stand seeing her disappointed in him. “I’ll go.” 

He cuts his eyes to the Commander. “I’m not a coward.” 

 

They travel in a carriage with a bodyguard and a chantry sister.  There’s no opportunity to talk. He passes the time staring out the window, because they would question if he passed it staring at her.  She hums, catches herself and stops.He should find it annoying, but it’s a new endearing quirk and it’s fascinating. 

After a while, he recognises the tune. He catches her off guard when he hums along. He is rewarded by her laugh and for a single moment his stomach doesn’t feel like a ball of cold iron. 

They overnight at an inn. The Inquisitor is both princess and warlord; people either shrink from her or bow and curtsy. He sees them carrying steaming water up to her room for a hot bath and later, when he’s alone, he imagines sharing it with her. The thought of her breasts lathered in soap is almost enough to arouse him. But the dread of what is to come is more powerful and he doesn’t sleep. 

The next morning she is clean and rosy and smells of expensive perfume. They’ve got her dressed in a travel coat of ruby dragonling scales, with a fur-lined hood and gloves. Her hair’s been braided and coiled. He can’t imagine Queen Anora ever looking finer. She catches his eyes lingering and he quickly looks away.

 

Soon the whole carriage smells like that perfume. He enjoys it for the first few hours, but the closer they draw to their destination, the more it turns his stomach. Or perhaps it’s not the perfume, but the way the wheels jolt over the uneven road. Or perhaps it is neither of those things. Perhaps it’s the fact that he  _ is _ a coward. He has no wish to see what his actions have wrought. 

“Have you ever been to Sahrnia before, Ser Samson?” the Chantry sister asks. 

“I have not.” But he's received letters. Many letters from it and about it. There’s a chance she doesn’t know the story. Every day more wide-eyed do-gooders join the Inquisition. He finds himself hoping she’s somehow unaware of his crimes.

“It’s beautiful in it’s own way,” the sister says. Her hands are neatly folded on her lap, her voice is far too cheerful. “Very cold, of course. But if you squint just right you can imagine it’s year-round Satinalia.”

“With less revelry and more starving,” Evelyn’s bodyguard adds. It’s the first he’s said anything and his glare at Samson is an accusation. 

“Well yes, of course.” The sister shrugs. “But one day, perhaps, that will change.” 

“You’ve been a number of times in the past year, Sister Martha?” Evelyn asks. 

The woman nods so enthusiastically that Samson half expects her head to bob right off her shoulders. 

“Yes, Your Worship. And every visit it improves. You might not even recognise it from last time you were there.” 

 

The carriage rattles to a halt some time in the early evening.

“Oh, this is wonderful,” Evelyn says as Samson follows her out. 

But the sight that greets him is a punch to the gut. Red crystals jut out of the earth at odd angles. Buildings have collapsed in on themselves. Jagged rubble pierces through the snow. 

But Evelyn is spinning in place, admiring it all. She hardly has time to take it in before the villagers are swarming out of their ramshackle homes to greet her.  Samson stands stiffly at her shoulder as a woman rushes forward, crying her title. She has an infant in her arms. Evelyn greets her like a long-lost friend. “Linette!”

They embrace, and then the woman holds out her bewildered child. “Inquisitor, I’d like you to meet our daughter, Evelyn”. 

_ His _ Evelyn laughs and claps her hands together in girlish glee, bending at the knees to talk to the baby. He’s never seen her this way before. It isn’t her. It’s theatre.  Or is it just another part of her that he’s never seen? 

A man wraps an arm around the woman’s waist and when Evelyn sees him, she holds his gaze a little longer than necessary. Something silent passes between them. 

“How are you, Louis?” Evelyn asks.

He nods and takes his wife’s hand. “Better than I was last we saw each other. The nightmares come and go. But I’m alive, and I have you to thank for that.” 

Samson’s breath catches. The man doesn’t know that feet from where he stands, within arm’s reach, is the one responsible for those nightmares.

None of them do. 

How many of these hopeful, happy faces are ones he had captured, are ones he force-fed crimson torture?  There is no air. He has to be anywhere but there. He turns and runs. 

Around a wrecked building, knee-deep in snow, he bends double and throws up. 

He clings to crumbling brickwork to keep from falling forward into his own sick while he heaves in air. He knew it would be bad. He didn’t expect it to feel like this. Like the lash of Red Lyrium with none of the relief and none of the power. Like barbed wire being yanked through his veins. 

“Oh dear, are you alright, love?” An old lady is trudging towards him through the snow, her skirts gathered in both hands. 

“Fine.” He says. He wishes nothing but to be alone. 

But she approaches and hands him a cloth to wipe his face. She’s followed him from the square for the express purpose of checking on him. He’s the Inquisitor’s escort after all, and they can’t have anything bad happening to their hero’s people. 

“Did you eat something foul?” she asks. 

“Maybe.” 

She pats his arm. “It might just be the ride over. That road is new and I hear it’s quite difficult. Hard on the stomach, those rattling carriages. Visited Val Royeaux as a girl and it made me dreadfully queasy.” 

She waits with him until he’s recovered enough to go back to where Evelyn is still talking to those he once caged. 

 

There’s a woman in a fur coat with her now and when he draws near enough, the Inquisitor introduces them. “Mistress Poulin, this is my friend, Raleigh.” 

Not Samson. They could recognise the name.  He’s still reeling that she’s called him a friend when he meets the woman’s eyes and knows her.  Knight-Captain Fornier spoke of a Poulin. She’s the woman he bought the quarry from. She’s the woman who sold him these people. Does Evelyn know? 

Samson’s stomach churns again.

“A pleasure,” the woman says in a thick Orlesian accent, but there’s no pleasure in her gaze. 

Has she identified him too? 

“We’ve prepared a meal to celebrate your arrival,” she says to the Inquisitor. “We would be honoured if you’d join us in the main hall.” 

“You shouldn’t have,” Evelyn says. “You have little enough as is.” 

“Oh, it’s nothing fancy I’m afraid.” 

 

That’s an understatement. It’s grey gruel. But Evelyn sits beside him and eats as if it’s the best food she’s ever tasted. They used to feed the mages gruel in Kirkwall, he recalls. Perhaps there’s some element of nostalgia for her. 

As for him, he can not eat.  Even if he had the stomach for it, he couldn’t bring himself to. What right does he have to enjoy their hospitality after what he’s done to them?

The hall is wooden and new. He can tell by the smell of the varnish and paint. This meal is more than a celebration to them, there’s an air of ceremony about it.

“I hear the quarry’s reopened?” Evelyn asks Poulin and Samson can’t keep himself from cringing. 

Poulin’s eyes dart down to her meal. “Yes, I thought I might give you a tour when we’re done here?” 

He doesn’t hear Evelyn's response. The old woman has shuffled around the table to speak with him.  “Will you not have anything to eat, love? It might settle your stomach.” 

He shakes his head, holds up a hand. 

“Still feeling that bad? Oh, dear.” She pats his arm again. 

“Are you ill?” Poulin asks. And he knows then that she doesn’t recognise him, because there’s genuine concern in her expression. 

He realises everyone is watching him. The urge to flee the room is almost overwhelming. 

Evelyn breaks the silence. “Perhaps we should do the tour tomorrow, if you don’t mind?”

“Of course,” Poulin rises. “We’ve prepared rooms for you. I’ll take you there now.” 

The bodyguard clears his throat. “Actually, we have accommodation at the Keep. We shan't need to impose.”

But Samson feels Evelyn’s eyes on him. “I think it’s best Raleigh doesn’t travel more tonight. A room in town would be much appreciated, thank you.” 

What new cruelty is this? His hand starts shaking and he snatches it to his chest, hoping no one notices. Of course, they all do. 

“Goodness!” The old woman says. She removes her shawl and puts it around his shoulders. 

And he wants to push her away, he wants to scream the truth into her face. But he lacks courage and he allows Evelyn to help him stand. 

 

They’re staying in someone’s home. The Inquisitor sends her bodyguard up to the Keep with the sister and a message. Samson fears she will leave too, but she doesn’t. Or, perhaps, she doesn’t  _ yet _ . Perhaps she isn’t done with him. 

They’ve been given the main bedroom, or she has. The family has moved into a smaller room. He stands shaking while she argues with them and then reluctantly agrees to the arrangement. 

Then the door clicks shut and it’s just the two of them. 

His breaths are ragged, misting the air. The room is done up in bright sunshine colours. There’s a woolen rug on the floor and a patchwork quilt on the bed. An orange cat sleeps on a stool in front of heavy amber curtains. But there is no warmth. His insides are ice. 

“You were brainwashed,” she says eventually.

But he shakes his head. “No. I wasn’t.” 

“You were high on lyrium.”

He shakes his head again. “I was angry.” 

Angry at the Chantry, angry at the world. He thought suffering was the only way to birth a brighter future. His sacrifice meant others should relinquish. His pain meant others should endure. It was the end of the world, so what did a few small lives matter? 

It was an insignificant, starving, village. No one would miss it. 

 

There’s a knock on the door and Evelyn answers. 

The old lady has arrived. She’s brought broth for him and Evelyn accepts it with thanks before closing the door again. 

Broth. For  _ him _ . How many people has she lost to him? Husband? Siblings?  _ Children _ ?

He knocks the bowl from Evelyn’s hands as she tries to give it to him. 

The bowl clatters to the ground, hot liquid splattering across the floor and across Evelyn’s fancy coat. A  _ waste _ . A foolish waste!   
He falls to his knees, not far behind it, and tries to rescue it. It’s pooling. He can gather a little up still, even though it burns him. 

And then Evelyn is beside him. She’s stilling him. She’s cupping his face. 

And then she’s pulling him into her arms and he’s sobbing like a child while she holds him. 

He’s ashamed. He’s never known shame like this. 

The first lyrium he needed to buy off the streets, off a man he’d had arrested for selling before, he had thought he could sink no lower. This is far lower.

 

When his breath returns to him, he’s exhausted. She’s running fingers through his hair and rubbing his back and he wants to die. 

The cat hops off the stool and comes to investigate his mess. Its tail swishes as it sniffs at the broth, then the tip of a pink tongue darts out and it tastes it. It starts to purr as it laps it up and Evelyn chuckles. “You see, it’s not wasted.”

She strokes the cat with her gloved left hand and it preens.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks her. 

“Petting the cat?” she should know that’s not it. 

He shifts away from her, pulling his knees up to his chest. “Cullen interrogated me for weeks and I never broke. I almost died from withdrawal, twice, and I never broke. But you, somehow, without so much as lifting a finger, reduce me to this. Has this been your plan all along? Was this the end game? Because if so, you win.”

She shifts over to him again, leaving the cat to its meal, and she tucks his overgrown hair behind his ears. 

“Kirkwall’s talking again.”

“What?”

“The paranoia.”

He laughs hollowly but he’s not amused. He wants to escape from her gaze. He feels like he’s been turned inside out. He doesn’t want her to think of him like this. He wants her to see the man who bent her over her desk, who took her against the wall, who brought her to her knees. But this is who he really is, underneath that facade. Small and weak and… evil.

“Why did you bring me here?” he asks. And he hopes that she’ll say it was Cullen. It would be easier to resent Cullen. 

“To show you,” she says. 

To show him what he’s done. To show him the terrible cost of his choices. 

“How would you have me repent?” He asks. Another time, another him, and his tone would have been bitter. Or even playful. But now it’s plaintive. He wants an answer. He wants to make it better, somehow. 

“Raleigh, that’s not what I meant.” She takes his hands in hers. They’re crouched together close enough that they could kiss. She rests her forehead against his. “Do you see now? You  _ aren’t _ that man anymore.” 

He blinks. And he remembers the disastrous picnic. 

“What if I am?” he asks in a voice so small that it doesn’t even sound like his. 

The things he’s done are a part of him, like the red lyrium that’s slowly poisoning him.

She squeezes his hands and says nothing. 


	5. Chapter 5

Raleigh Samson wakes up in a warm bed with a cat on his chest. 

He’s not quite sure how he got there at first. Then he remembers the Inquisitor gently moving him from the floor, guiding him here. He was too drained to argue.   
Now he looks for her. But of course she’s not in the same room.  He’s playing the role of one of her escorts, it wouldn’t be appropriate for them to share a bed, even here.

Instead, she’s in the main room, sitting down to breakfast with the family who live here. 

When he emerges, holding the cat, five bright faces turn to him and want to know how he’s feeling. 

It’s the old lady, a woman who’s clearly expecting, a man who must be her husband, a younger girl, and… her. 

“You’re still looking a little flushed, dear.” The old woman rises and takes the cat from him before reaching up to lay a wrinkled palm on his forehead. 

He jerks away from her touch and she laughs. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. No fever, you’ll be right as rain soon no doubt.” 

It’s not fever that’s coloured his cheeks, it’s shame. He cannot meet the Inquisitor’s eyes. 

“Are you feeling up to accompanying me on a tour of the quarry?” she asks him, casually.    
It’s his choice. She’s making it his choice. He could feign illness and not have to see the place, the place where he sewed lyrium in living flesh.

But he needs to see it. 

He needs to face it.

He needs to be able to look her in the eye again. 

“Yes, I should be fine.” As an afterthought he adds, “Your Worship.” 

 

It feels like half the village accompanies them. They go on foot and at first it’s difficult. They have to wade through snow. The ominous bone tower looms over them and he remembers he once had a camp there. But now it’s Inquisition banners and wooden ramps and Cullen’s uniformed scouts waving. And her. The cold has tinted her cheeks and the tip of her nose pink. She smiles and she comments on the improvements that have been made. Less red lyrium, a path through the ice for fishing boats, more permanent structures. 

“You’ve done good work here,” she says to Poulin.  

The woman’s chin is buried in a thick scarf but Samson thinks she nods. 

“I cannot undo what was done, but I will do all I can to repay my debt to the people.”

So Evelyn  _ does _ know. It should make him feel better, but it makes him feel worse. This woman was only complicit in his actions and she is making reparations. What has he done?

Paperwork, mostly. 

Cullen doesn’t trust him to go out in the field. And his body probably isn’t strong enough anymore anyways. 

He’s been a glorified clerk for the Inquisition, living in safety and relative comfort and acting like it’s a curse. 

 

They come to the quarry and there’s a surprise waiting. They’ve erected a statue. Evelyn stands cast in posh blue granite. Her face is smooth, her stone eyes look to the sky and she’s striking one of those classic hero poses with her hands on her hips and her robes fluttering. 

The real, flesh and blood, Inquisitor covers her mouth as if overwhelmed by the honour. 

She tells them they shouldn’t have. She tells them she’s undeserving. But Poulin puts a hand on her back and gently guides her towards it. 

“The workers say it serves as inspiration, but it is more than that. It is a memorial for those we lost here. It is a tribute not only to you, Your Worship, but to hope. Times have been hard, but now we look towards the future. And it is bright, thanks to you.”

 

Evelyn stands at the base of her likeness and shakes her head. “I don’t know what to say.” 

And Samson says, “Let me speak.” 

His heart is pounding and his mouth is dry. The faces before him blur together as he takes his place at Evelyn’s side. 

“Raleigh…” there’s a warning in her voice. She has an inkling of what he intends. Good, because he doesn’t. 

He only knows that he can’t keep pretending. He can’t stand here and nod and clap for the hero when he’s the villain. He can’t accept their hospitality and their kindness. He can’t lie to them. 

And he can’t be a coward anymore. There are consequences. There have to be. 

“I’m not the Inquisitor’s friend,” he says. The people are bemused. It’s the way those good at making speeches often start, with some kind of misnomer that leads to a humorous epithet. “I’m her prisoner.” 

They’re still smiling. Perhaps they think it’s some strange declaration of love. It is. In a way. 

“The Inquisitor took me captive in Umbralis 9:41 Dragon after I attempted to kill her.” His palms are sweating. Evelyn tries to caution him again, but he speaks over her. 

“You see, I’d been building an army to fight against her.”

In the crowd, he spots the bodyguard. He must have come down from the Keep to attend the tour, but now he’s moving to the front. Good. Someone should protect Evelyn when the crowd turns violent. 

“Not just any army,” Samson says. “I was building a  _ red lyrium _ army.” He lets the confession drop. The next is probably unnecessary, but he says it anyway. “I am Raleigh Samson. I was Corypheus’s right hand man.” 

Now they know it’s not a joke. Or if it is one, it’s one in such poor taste that they have a right to be angry. Some are still staring, some are muttering. They seem to be pressing in. 

Evelyn grabs hold of his arm and tries to pull him away. He knows what mobs can do. But he needs to say this.   
  
“Wait! Please!” The sound is growing. It’s like the moment when the tide draws out before a colossal wave. But Samson digs his heels into the ground. “I want to apologise. I can’t bring your loved ones back, I can’t take away the trauma you’ve suffered. But I need to - please -”

_ Please forgive me. Or at least kill me. _

His second wish is almost granted. Someone lobs a rock at his head.  It glances off his temple, hard enough that dark spots swarm across his vision. Then the wave breaks. The crowd swells. Bodies are pressing in, roaring anger. Not just at him, but at Evelyn because she’s brought him here, because she’s kept him alive. He didn’t mean for that. 

She throws up a barrier. The bodyguard reaches them. And then a dozen Inquisition soldiers are surrounding them and conveying them through the sea of anger. 

 

In the carriage, Evelyn dabs at his forehead with her sleeve. He’s stumbling over apologies. 

It was her moment and he stole it and pissed all over it. 

He thought he was doing the right thing, but as always he was a selfish fool. 

She kisses him. 

 

When she draws away the carriage’s only other occupant, the bodyguard, looks like someone physically struck him. He clears his throat and turns his attention to the window.   
  


* * *

 

Two days later and Ambassador Montilyet is red in the face. They’re standing in her office and she’s pacing behind her desk. “This is a disaster. An absolute disaster.”

Samson is silent because she’s right. 

“There must be some way we can fix this,” Evelyn says. 

The ambassador stops her pacing.. “How are our allies to interpret this? Sahrnia trusted us and we walked their greatest enemy into their very homes. Add to that, you apparently introduced him as your friend? What are people to think when we count his kind among our friends?”

_ His kind. _ Fair enough. Samson rubs his chest. It burns a little. It’s been burning off and on since they left Sahrnia.

“I should have stayed, perhaps,” he offers. “If I dedicated myself to making reparations -”

The Ambassador stares at him. She’s looking at him as if she’s surprised to see him. Perhaps she forgot he was there. 

Then she turns from them and nods. “Reparations. I… I need some time to think. Don’t… don’t take him anywhere in the meantime.”

 

On the stairs between the Ambassador’s office and the kitchens, Evelyn asks, “How are you feeling?”

The question catches him off guard. He’s not sure how to answer. He’s never been particularly self-reflective, he doesn’t know how to talk about _ feelings _ . He lacks the vocabulary. 

“Just peachy,” he says. 

She raises her eyebrows. After what she’s seen, it’s hardly a surprise that deflection doesn’t work. He sighs. “What does it matter how I  _ feel _ ? What’s done is done.” 

“Raleigh…”

He relents. And he suspects that for her he always will. Leaning his back against the cold wall, he admits, “I keep thinking about that little old lady.”

“Granny Mae?”

“Heh, didn’t even know her name.” 

She settles on the steps. He doesn’t know what the Inquisitor expects. He doesn’t intend to stand here talking long enough that it warrants her sitting down to listen. He swallows. It feels strange standing while she’s sitting so he eases down too, keeping his back to the wall. 

“I… I don’t know. She saw me a certain way. I feel like I betrayed her. Twice, perhaps. Once with the lie. Once with the truth. I wonder what she thinks of me now.”

“Perhaps she thinks you were brave?” Evelyn suggests. 

He snorts. “I imagine anything but. Wouldn’t be surprised if they burned the bed where I slept to make well and sure they got the filth off.”

She takes his hand and it startles him. “It took a lot of courage to tell the truth,” she says. 

“Stupidity, more like.” He looks at his knees. “Besides, it was more selfishness than anything.” Like everything else he does. “I wanted absolution. The weight of what I’d had done to them was too much and I cracked under it. While I was acting like your friend, no one could forgive me. I mean, it’s not like they could anyway. What happened there is beyond that.”

“A few weeks ago you told me it was a kindness.”  
  
“And I still believe that, partially.” He checks her expression, but it gives him nothing. “Everything I said to you was true. But… it’s true from a distance.” It’s difficult to explain and once again he finds his vocabulary inadequate. “It’s not like I could convince them of it. I mean certain people, we’re trained to believe we’re part of a greater good or some shit. I think it’s easier for us to believe our suffering is necessary… but you can’t say that to ordinary people." This is not coming out right. He sighs again. She hasn’t withdrawn her hand, so that’s something. He stares at their interlinked fingers. Hers are long and clad in that soft leather. His are stubby and calloused. His nails are dirty. “It’s simple when you consider people as tools, when you think you know what is best for them. And from a distance transforming starving villagers into powerful vessels _was_ what was best for them. From far away their connections - love, friendship - were only burdens causing them more difficulty. I… I’m probably not making any sense.”

“But from up close they’re Granny Mae and Linette and baby Evelyn?”

“Yeah.” 

His insides feel heavy. He feels that he’s done a bad job of explaining, but he’s fumbling at truths that he’s only recently started to grasp. “I… I grew up in the Chantry. My father was a drunk, so my mother gave me over to the Order when I was but a boy of five. It’s all I know. According to the Chantry, every person has their place and their purpose. And if they step out of line it’s… it’s the Right of Annulment or an Exalted March or, if you’re a bloke who made a bad decision, it’s the streets and cravings and eventual death. Even when my entire existence was consumed by my hate for it, I was still acting like the Chantry and I didn’t even realise it.”

“It’s difficult to see the impact of your actions on individuals when you’re plotting on a war table,” Evelyn admits.

“Yet, somehow,  _ you _ do.” 

She shifts. “Well, I’ve been in a Circle. I know what it’s like having vast powers determining your fate.”

“Still…”

“It’s difficult. And I’ve also made mistakes. But that’s why I go on trips like that one. It’s why I visit the villages and arlings and sneak away to jousts.” She smiles. “I’ve known and seen great kindness in my life. You haven’t had that luxury.”

His heart skips. It’s not an altogether pleasant feeling. “I don’t want you to pity me.”

“It’s not pity,” she says. And she looks into his eyes with such meaning that he can’t breathe. 

Then she climbs to her feet. “You should write to her.” 

“What?” 

“Granny Mae. Explain everything. Worst that can happen, you’ll never hear back. But you’ll at least have got it off your chest, right?”

He nods, pulling himself up. But that  _ isn’t  _ the worst that can happen. The worst that can happen is she sees his letter and it upsets her further. Or perhaps she sends back a long reply listing everyone she’s loved who he’s taken from her. 

Perhaps he is a coward, because he doesn’t believe he can bear that. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this chapter is riddled with errors and repetition, I could only bear to read through it twice.

While Samson attempts a letter to the woman whose life he possibly destroyed, the Inquisition is planning a ball.

He sees little of the Inquisitor as she’s caught up in the preparations. Josephine Montilyet’s plan to counteract  the damage caused by his display in Sahrnia is to invite choice nobles to Skyhold and show them all the good work they’re doing rebuilding the South.

“The watchword is ‘reparations’,” she instructs the entire staff. “We need them to understand our ethos is around rebuilding, correcting damages done, atonement and forgiveness. If they speak to you, try to bear this in mind.”

Later when he sees Montilyet in the garden making hurried notes about something or other that needs doing, he jokes about it.

“I should be flattered. You’re changing the Inquisition’s entire ethos based on my actions?”

Her eyes dart to him briefly before returning to her page. “I suggested we give you over to the village as we did Mistress Poulin and I’ll have you know, the rest of the Council agreed. But the Inquisitor wouldn’t hear of it. Perhaps she feels it is best we keep you where we can see you.”

He’s struck dumb. Evelyn wants him here. Or she’s protecting him. He refuses to believe it’s because she doesn’t trust him.

“Will you kindly stop gaping,” Montilyet says. “Oh, and don’t be too flattered. Our ethos is not changing. We have been dedicated to reparations since before the-”

“I need to go.” He pushes past her and can practically feel her glare boring into the back of his head.

 

A few questions to those usually in the know inform him that the Inquisitor is in her quarters. He’s not certain yet what he wants to say to her. Perhaps he only wants her confirmation that what the ambassador said is true. She wants him here. Although his palms start sweating if he even thinks of asking it in those words.

No worries, he’ll figure it out when he gets there. He usually does.

The door to her quarters is open, as it often is during the day when it functions as her office. Good, he won’t be disturbing anything.

Or so he thinks.

As he climbs the stairs, he hears laughter and he realises she’s not alone. And then, before he has time to prepare himself, he sees them.

The Inquisitor and Cullen. He’s holding her in a patch of sunlight that’s streaming through the balcony window. One arm around her waist, the other holding one of her gloved hands.

It feels like Samson’s heart is being torn in two. Physical pain pours from it, down his arms, into his palms like some cold magic. His hands tremble and he fists them, sinking back into the shadows. Part of him wants to tear across the room and pull them apart. But a part of him knows that this is right. This is how things should be. They’re equally beautiful. They even have matching fucking scars.

“Again?” He asks her softly as he leans towards her.

She nods.

And Samson can’t bear to look anymore. He creeps back down the stairs. Once he’s out in the walkway he gives a silent scream and staggers against the wall. He’s breathing heavily, but he can’t seem to catch his breath. His entire body aches. But he tells himself, he has no reason to be angry. Cullen has been through hell, after all.  Samson doesn’t know much of what happened in the Ferelden Circle, but he remembers the nightmares that would jerk Cullen awake almost every night when they were sharing a room. And Cullen has known, and wanted, Evelyn so much longer.

Didn’t he even suggest it himself? _Marry Cullen, get something dirty on the side._

He has no right to be angry when she was always simply using him for comfort and pleasure. He has only himself to blame that some time, in the last weeks, he forgot that. He believed her claims that she wanted more. Meanwhile, he’s become a project.

It’s not her fault that her small gestures of affection have affected him so. It’s not her fault that he was so starved of kindness that a simple kiss or the touch of her hand meant everything.

Samson can’t resent her wanting something, someone, normal. She deserves that. She deserves everything.

But he stops his morning sparring with Cullen. He’s a little too worried he might accidentally kill the man.

 

The night of the ball comes quickly. Samson has buried himself in work and managed to avoid either of them. But now he knows, it is public knowledge, that Cullen will be escorting her. Samson will have to see them together again and his stomach churns with dread at the thought.

He is to attend. He thought he might hide, stay in his quarters as the Inquisition’s private shame. But Montilyet wants him on display, wants to show her guests how he’s a changed man, how he’s been tamed. He is given new clothes. The tunic even has a sash. He has never owned anything so fine and it makes him feel even uglier in comparison.

It seems the whole of Skyhold is awash with excitement. They’ve never had a do this big here before. Apparently the last great occasion was the celebratory banquet after Corypheus was defeated. He didn’t get to see that one, he has no idea what to expect. But the servants are frantic and he feels like he’s underfoot the entire day.

 

Then the night itself. He’s been assigned a spot in the hall to stand where he can be seen, and, unfortunately, can see. Luckily, he has access to alcohol. He thinks that will be his salvation, but after one sip of wine he cannot stomach more. The hall fills with strangers. Many of them gape at him and whisper. He may well be in a cage on display at a zoo for the way they act around him. The food, like the wine, is too heavy. An orchestra plays jaunty music, no doubt the latest from Orlais, and it sets Samson’s teeth on edge. He wishes now that they _had_ sent him back to Sahrnia. That torture would be preferable to this. He’s scanning the crowds. He wants to see her and dreads seeing her. He needs to know where she is so she doesn’t take him by surprise.

But of course, she isn’t just there in the crowd. She is _announced_.

“And now presenting Lady Inquisitor Trevelyan, vanquisher of the dark magister Corypheus, Healer of the Sky and Champion of the Blessed Andraste,” Montilyet reads. She is standing in front of the high table, now set where the great throne of judgement usually sits. The hall doors swing open as she continues. “And accompanying her, Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford of Honnleath, Commander of the Forces of the Inquisition. Former Knight-Commander of Kirkwall.”

The crowds part and he sees them. She is a vision. They have her in a dress of turquoise taffeta. It’s long enough to brush the floor and clinched at the waist with ruffles and gems. The bodice hugs her figure and the neckline is deep enough to show the tops of her creamy breasts. Samson downs the rest of his wine. She even has a matching set of white gloves that come up to her elbows, and a necklace of stones the same blue as the dress. And her hair is done up, exposing her long, lovely, neck. Samson can’t stop staring at her, and at how she’s holding Cullen’s arm while he grins, dressed in his matching tunic and sash.

It’s probably the best damned day of his life.

Samson sets down his glass because he’s afraid he’ll break it. He feels physically ill. How can this possibly be having such an affect on him? He’s faced so much worse in his life. How weak has the past year made him?

Music swells and it’s time for the happy couple to open the dance floor. Cullen wraps an arm around Evelyn’s waist and pulls her close and they begin to waltz. They’re both smiling. And it’s both sickening and beautiful because she looks so fucking happy. And Samson wants to run from the room but he can’t make himself move, he can’t make himself stop watching.

They give an impressive display, everyone cheers and then other couples are soon twirling together. Samson still can’t take his eyes off Cullen and Evelyn. They sit at the high table. Cullen is talking animatedly. Samson has never seen him like that before. And Evelyn keeps laughing and nodding. _Keeps laughing_. She never laughs when she’s with him.

Except that one time.

What was all that to her? Was it nothing?

Lying in that bed together that night, holding his hand. What was that? Because it clearly wasn’t what he thought, what he hoped.

He can’t take it anymore. There’s only so much torture he can bear. He turns and slips out of the door to the herb garden.

 

He’s not supposed to be there. It’s quiet and dark. The front courtyard is strung with lanterns and vases of fragrant flowers cover almost every surface, but this part of Skyhold is off limits to the guests. It rained recently and the ground is damp, so Montilyet is probably concerned about mud. That and overgrown elfroot isn’t the prettiest of displays. But it suits him fine. He takes in huge lungfuls of air as he surges out into the night. It smells fresh and new. He stops by the old well, leans against it and concentrates on the feel of the rotting wood beneath his fingers. It’s a technique he taught himself back when he first started taking the red stuff. You can survive almost anything if you concentrate your entire attention on something small and insignificant and unrelated. He picks off the moss, scrapes away at the outer layers of wood. The music is distant here, there’s just the sound of crickets and some far away night bird. There are no stars, but the moon is bright enough through the clouds that he can see his breath steam in front of him. Slowly, his heart rate returns to normal and his chest unclenches.

He thinks of the letter. He’s on his seventh or eighth draft now. He’s never been good at this kind of thing. Words baffle him. But he’s taken to trying to work out his sentences in free moments, shaping them in his mind and then chiseling away at them before setting them down and that seems to be working out. But now thinking of the letter hurts because it makes him think of her. It was her suggestion. He returns his attention instead to the grain of the wood.

 

“I thought I saw you come out here.”

He starts, spins. She’s just a shadow at the other end of the garden but it’s definitely her. His heart is instantly pounding again, his blood is roaring in his ears.  

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says.

“Neither should you.” She lifts her skirts and starts towards him. But she’s going to get mud all over that pretty dress. He rushes towards her and pulls her onto the walkway.

She laughs breathlessly. “And that?”

“There’s mud. Why did you come out here?” She’s too close. He paces away. “It’s your party, you should be inside.”

“I wanted to check on you.” She’s following him.

“Well you needn’t. I’m a grown man. Or are you concerned I’ll slaughter your guests?”

“I don’t know, I might slaughter a few of them myself,” she comments.

When he looks at her over his shoulder, she shrugs. The moonlight on her shoulders makes her look ethereal, like something out of a dream. He swallows.

“Raliegh, I know this must be hard for you.”

“Picked up on that, did you?” They’ve reached the gazebo and there’s nowhere else for him to go.

She doesn’t react to his tone. “I’m sorry to do this to you.”

“Don’t. Please don’t. I don’t want to hear explanations.” What is she going to say that he doesn’t already know? He understands he’s not good enough. He understands she cares in her own way, but not in the way he wants her to. And he knows that the way they started out wasn’t a way destined for some great love story.

She’s cocked her head. “If I’d known you felt that way I could have asked…”  
  
“Was it really that much of a mystery?” He’s unable to keep the anger and pain from his voice.

She takes a step back and it’s clear that it was, indeed a mystery. She is utterly perplexed by his reaction.

“Go back inside,” he says. “I don’t… I don’t want to say anything I’ll regret.”

But of course, she’s the Inquisitor. She doesn’t ever back down. She squares her shoulders. “Listen, I know it’s uncomfortable having people talking about you and watching you, but at least they’re not throwing rocks at you and after tonight you won’t ever -”  


“I’m in love with you!”

She stops talking and stares at him and he wants to be sick.

“I’m in love with you,” he repeats, quieter this time. “And I think you know that. Or at least I thought you did. So I… I need a little time. Because frankly that in there, it’s hell. Alright? You keep... “ his voice quivers and he hates himself. “You keep finding new ways to torture me. It’s amazing, really. But if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather sit this one out.”

“What…” Her eyes are wide. “Oh, oh Maker.” She covers her hands with her mouth. “Cullen.”

“Yes, Cullen. Cullen and his pathetic grin and his perfect face and his chiseled jaw. But don’t worry, I’m not angry. It was my suggestion, remember? It’s fine. You deserve each other.”

“Deserve each… Raleigh, what do you think’s going on?”

He shudders. “Don’t. Don’t pretend there’s been some misunderstanding. I have eyes.”

“Cullen is my highest ranking officer, it made sense for him to escort me tonight. That’s all it is.”

The lie hurts even more. He closes his eyes and tries to control his temper. “I saw you together.”

“When?”

“What does it matter? You were together in your quarters. He was… holding you.”

“That’s impossible.”

“I know what I saw!”

“And I’m telling you that you didn’t see what you think you saw. Whatever it was.”

“Why are you _lying_ to me? Don’t we know each other well enough now for you to at least tell me the truth?”

“I _am_ telling you the truth! What do you think, that I’m spending our little three month break getting my satisfaction with _Cullen_? Do you honestly think he’d be interested in the kind of things we do? Raleigh, look at me.”

He pulls his eyes back to her face. Her eyebrows are drawn together, her face has coloured.

“He seemed interested enough in there,” he mutters. “He was… I’ve never seen the man that happy. And you were laughing together and-” he’s aware he sounds pathetic. These things on their own don’t amount to much.

“Yes, Cullen is happy,” she says. “He’s going to visit his family in South Reach. He’s just received word that his brother has a son. He’s been regaling me with tales of when they were children.”

“The dance -” Samson says.

“The dance is ceremonia-” she trails off, her mouth still open. “The dance. Maker, that’s it.” She clutches her head and groans, unconcerned that she’s messing up the intricate style. “That’s what you saw. In my quarters.” She looks up at him again and shakes her head. “Raleigh, neither of us knew how to dance. We were practicing. That’s what you saw.”

He remembers the way Cullen’s arm was around her. _Again?_ It makes sense and he’s horrified. He’s been in agony for days over a misunderstanding.

“If you thought I was seeing him behind your back, why didn’t you confront me?”

“What right did I have?” His voice has lost its strength. His emotions are clashing, confused.

“What right?” She closes the space between them, her skirts rustling. “You had every right.”

She reaches up to cup his face and he stops breathing. He’s frightened and hopeful and she looks so beautiful and it is so good to feel her touch again, even through the glove. 

“I’m yours, Raleigh. And yours alone. I didn’t think it needed to be said but clearly it does.”

His heart leaps and a wave of _something_ crashes through him. He feels dizzy. He’s tingling.

And then, as if to seal the deal, she stands on tiptoes and kisses him. He wraps his arms around her, pulling her close to his chest and he holds her. He’s probably crushing her. His breath his coming in gasps, he’s completely overwhelmed. He doesn’t know what to do or what to say. Only that he never wants to let her go. And he knows it’s pathetic and he doesn’t care. _His_. This woman, this incredible woman who holds all of Thedas in her tiny hands.

“Shh, it’s okay,” she croons while he hugs her.

There’s a hall packed with people likely wondering where she is and, if anyone finds them like this, they’ll have to host a whole other ball just to explain it. Samson knows these things but none of them matter. _His_ Evelyn is in his arms.

  
She looks up into his face and kisses him again. Her lips are soft and warm and perfect. And in the shadows of the gazebo they continue to kiss and nothing disturbs them. Far away the orchestra plays, and occasionally the breeze rustles her skirts. Once or twice Samson thinks he hears some distant voice calling for the Inquisitor, but he pays them no mind and neither does she.  


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so... *this* is the chapter that earns the fic its explicit rating. It's also a very long chapter. 
> 
> I've never written graphic smut before, so I've been dithering about the scene and fiddling with it for near on a week. I decided that if I was going to post it, I'd better just post it and be done with it before I lost my nerve! I hope that it works out okay and is enjoyable and easy to follow. 
> 
> If you would rather not see explicit smut, I have marked it off with ** in the text at the beginning and end, so you should be able to search for it and skip it without missing too much story. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Oh and big thanks to Adara_Rose for all the help/suggestions with *that* scene. :)

“Have you seen the Inquisitor recently?” Cullen asks.

There’s a frown line between the man’s eyebrows that warns Samson there’s something more behind the question.

A few weeks have passed since the ball. The Commander has returned from his visit to his family, and they’re sparring again.

“How recent is recently?” Samson asks. He wonders what Cullen really wants to know.

They’ve been very careful. Montilyet is already handling one reputation disaster, and if it were to get out that there was anything romantic going on between him and the Inquisitor, he can only imagine what the fallout of that would be. Better to keep it quiet.  Evelyn’s been busier than usual, what with the visits from nobles and things, so their encounters have been brief and far between. A few stolen kisses in an empty room, the brush of a hand when they pass in a quiet corridor. The kind of innocent nonsense that Cullen would probably most enjoy.

Only it doesn’t feel like nonsense. It feels like a lifeline.

Now Cullen frowns. “The past two days.” He’s showing no interest in actually sparring, although he’s holding his sword and shield as usual.

“Can’t say I have.”

“Perhaps you should go speak with her.”

That surprises him. He senses a trap. “Why?”

Cullen sighs. “Look I know sometimes I might be a little slow on the uptake, but I like to think that I’m not entirely oblivious.”

Samson sheaths his own sword. “What’s wrong with her? What’s happened?”

“That’s just the thing. I don’t know. She won’t… she won’t say anything. But something’s different. She’s missed the last few meals in the hall.  I’ve tried to ask her what’s wrong. We’ve all tried.”

His immediate thought is the anchor. “Does she seem in pain?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. Go speak with her? Maybe you’ll have more luck.”

 

* * *

 

The door to Evelyn’s quarters is open and Samson closes it behind him. He finds her sitting at her desk, scribbling across a page. Her gloves are stained with ink.

“I’m sorry, can we speak later? I’m very busy,” she says, without looking up.

“It’s me.”

She raises her head, then quickly ducks it again. “I’m afraid I don’t have time right now. Can we talk tomorrow?”

“Certainly,” he says, keeping the disappointment at her cool tone from his voice. But he doesn’t leave. “Everything alright?”

“Everything’s perfectly fine.”

“What’s the big job?”

“What?”

“The urgent task at hand. Perhaps I can be of help?”

“You can’t.”

“Right.”

He picked up an apple from the kitchens on his way to her and now he tosses it casually from hand to hand. Something definitely isn’t right. “Cullen’s worried.”

One corner of her mouth turns up. “You’re here because Cullen’s worried?”

“Well you know me, _I_ don’t give a shit. You can do what you like.” He moves towards the desk, still playing with the fruit. “But him, he’s walking around wearing that bewildered puppy dog expression, like he’s been locked out of the house and isn’t sure what he did wrong.”

He plonks the apple on top of her work.  “What did he do wrong?” He asks.

“Nothing. No one’s done anything wrong.” She moves the apple off her page. “I have work to do.”

“Of course you do. You’re the Inquisitor. But usually you have a little time in between. For eating, and other things.”

“Other things?” She quirks an eyebrow.

“I haven’t seen you in days,” he says seriously. “That’s not unusual. But usually I can guess why.”

Now she meets his gaze. He finally has her full attention. Then it’s gone. She’s staring at the page again. He doesn’t expect her to speak, so it takes him by surprise when she whispers, “My father died.”

The temperature drops. He isn’t sure what to do or say. “I… I’m sorry to hear that.”

She shrugs. “Yes, I’m sure everyone will be when they find out. They’ll all be falling over themselves to tell me how sorry they are. Josephine might even suggest we hold a memorial.” She  pinches the bridge of her nose, unknowingly smudging ink across it.

He’s said the wrong thing. He doesn’t know how to handle this kind of situation. When he thinks of his own father, all he can remember are fists. He’s still trying to decide what more to say when she speaks again.

“I received word two days ago. Two days and I still don’t know how to feel.”

“You didn’t have a good relationship?”

“We did, once.”

The distance between them is suddenly too great and he goes around the desk to her side. He has no idea what he’s supposed to do, but he knows he wants to be near her. He wants her to know she isn’t alone. Perhaps he’s more the pup than Cullen after all.

She’s staring at her stained fingers. “My family is very devout. When my abilities manifested, they thought I was cursed. I… he was the only one who continued to write to me while I was in the Circle. One letter a week. I don’t think my mother even knew. If she did, I’m certain she didn’t approve.” She trails off again, lost in painful memories.

“What happened?” he prompts her. Had her Circle, like Kirkwall’s, cracked down on letter-writing?

She looks up at him, her eyes are shining and she’s smiling. “I was declared the Herald of Andraste.”

He can guess what that means. Chantry family. One of two ways that can go. Either they’re ambitious enough to believe they’ve spawned the Chosen One. Or… it’s blasphemy. He can tell from her current state which it was.

“Shit.”

She swallows and fiddles with her gloves some more. “I never heard from him again, although I sent countless letters trying to explain. I suppose they went unopened. Josephine heard from him though, back in Haven. She approached my family for their support. He called us a heretical movement and condemned me in particular. In fact, he went so far as to say he no longer considered me his daughter.” Her voice cracks on the last word. “The rest of my family made that decision the day I turned out to be a mage, but him… I thought I meant more to him.”

Tears start rolling down her cheeks and Samson feels completely helpless. “Who cares what that wanker says? You saved all their pathetic lives and you know it.”

She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“‘Course it does.” He’s burning with rage on her behalf, the fucking Chantry…

“No, Raleigh, it doesn’t. Don’t you see? I don’t care who was right. I… he’s gone. I’m never going to get a chance to change his mind.”

She drops her head onto her arms. Her pain is crushing his own chest. She weeps quietly and he stands dumbly, frightened that he’s just making everything worse. But she hasn’t asked him to leave yet, so he stays. Eventually his rage cools and the feeling of helplessness takes over.

His eyes fall on a bottle of wine on the shelf behind her. Probably a gift from some dignitary. Probably expensive. That’s irrelevant. He snags it, and then he grabs her by the arm and pulls her to her feet.

She starts to protest, but he tucks an arm around her shoulders and guides her to the sofa.

He holds her, and she rests her head against his chest as he pulls the cork out with his teeth. He passes the bottle to her, like he’s passing her a healing potion, or lyrium perhaps. He hopes it’s half as useful. She winces when she sips it. It must be strong. Good.

“We can toast him, if you like?” Samson asks.

She chuckles. “Oh, he’d love that. Alcohol is the path to corruption.” She takes another swig.

“All the more reason to do it,” Samson offers. He glances down at her to check that he hasn’t offended her but she’s smiling, albeit wanly.

She examines the bottle. The label is in some flowing script he can’t even read. She doesn’t mention where she got it or what it tastes like and he has a feeling her mind is far from the wine.

They don’t speak. The shadows move across the room and every now and then Samson looks down and finds she’s crying. But mostly, she’s quiet and still and hurting. She eventually sets the wine aside. It’s not the medicine he hoped it would be.

“What can I do for you?” he asks.

“Nothing. There’s nothing anyone can do.”

And the shadows creep and he takes her hand and holds it, and he strokes her hair. And he’s at a loss. There must be _something_ he can do. He has to _do_ something. Anything.

With a burst of wild courage, or perhaps stupidity, he disengages himself from her.

He falls to his knees. He doesn’t know how to comfort her with words, but perhaps he can at least distract her.

Watching her face, he slides his hands up her legs, hiking up her robes. Her red-rimmed eyes lock onto his.  Is this the right thing to do? Is this appropriate? Usually, when given a choice, he makes the wrong one. And now, more than ever, it’s important that he doesn’t. Slowly, he traces his fingers up to her thighs, then back down again, grazing the back of her knee. Her breath catches. He repeats the motion, enjoying every inch of her silky skin.

She groans. “Raleigh, you’re torturing me.”

“Oh.” He pulls away. “Sorry, I…”

“No, don’t stop.”

“Oh…”

He can’t suppress his smile as he rests his cheek against her thigh and nuzzles against her. She whimpers. _Yes_ , that’s what he wants to hear. Encouraged, he darts his tongue out to taste her sweet flesh. He moves it in teasing circles up, up, up to her core and she makes guttural noises. A hand grips his shoulder. He can smell her arousal.

**

He’s never done what he intends to do, and his hands tremble as he unties her smalls. But how difficult can it be? He knows how to pleasure her with his cock, and with his hands. Now he will pleasure her with his mouth, as he’s had her do for him so many times before.

His heart is hammering, his palms are sweating. He bares her slowly. It feels forbidden and illicit to be this close. Delicate pink folds peek through blonde hair. He’s getting hard at the very thought of tasting her. Still, he hesitates.

He looks up at her face. “Is this… is this okay?”

He immediately feels foolish. He should simply take her, isn’t that what he’s done before? Isn’t that how she likes it? She has no room in her life for another insipid sycophant, doing only as she commands. But she’s hurting and he doesn’t want to make things worse with his own poor judgement.

She nods her agreement. Her eyes are half lidded. Her chest is rising and falling rapidly.

_She wants this. She wants him._

He parts her folds with his fingers. She is slick and his cock presses against his breeches, desperate for release. It’s been far too long since he’s had her. But this isn’t about him. Not this time.

“Raleigh…” Her voice is soaked with need. He considers making her beg. One day, that might be fun. But now he succumbs to her urging.

He dips forward, laving her entire sex with his tongue. She tastes salty and sweet and he wants, _needs_ , more. She gasps and raises her hips. That’s all the encouragement he needs to hook his arms under her legs and pull her up, closer. He laps at her, not quite sure what he’s doing but revelling in the taste of her. He’s exploring her folds, feeling out the shape of them with his mouth, when she jerks suddenly as if shocked. He raises his eyes. She can’t have cum already?

No. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes are closed and she’s squeezing her own breasts. _Oh, Maker_ , the sight of her lost in bliss like that. He ducks down again, returns his attention to his explorations. She jolts again, and moans. And he realises it’s the little nub at her centre that’s doing that. He focuses his efforts there. He licks it, sucks on it. And she squirms. But he holds her firmly in place while he toys with it. And she tries to buck against his mouth. He ups his pace, flicking it, swirling around it, pressing against it.

Her fingers thread through his hair and fist as she moans his name. He slips two fingers inside her and thrusts them to the same rhythm as his tongue on that most sensitive part of her. Then three. She’s so wet and hot and _close_ . Her breath is coming in rapid gasps. _Lick, flick, suck._

She mewls as she comes undone. Her juices flow down the fingers he still has buried in her. He feels her clenching around them. And then she’s trembling, convulsing and he pulls her into his arms, down onto his lap, and he holds her until the tremors pass.

He wants to take her. He’s throbbing for her.

But this is for her, not for him and he will resist.

He will resist.

Right up until she pulls his head down into a burning kiss. Her mouth his hot and hungry despite where his has been.  Her fingers start undressing him.

While her lips are still moving against his, she unties his breeches. The brush of her hand against his cock almost undoes him.

His resistance crumbles. He tucks an arm under her knees and lifts her into his arms, like some hero from one of those Orlesian romances. Only his hand’s dripping with her juices, his cock’s hanging out and he stumbles and almost drops her.

She laughs against his lips. A victory, worthy of any hero.

He lays her down on her fancy silk covers but she won’t have any of that. She rises instantly to her knees and starts pulling his shirt from his shoulders, tugging it so hard he won’t be surprised if he finds a button or two missing later. Her lips barely leave his. Her palms travel across his chest, down to his navel and then, blissfully, down to his rock hard member.

This is a game he does know. He pushes her backwards, forcing her down against the mattress. He holds her arms above her head as he assaults her neck with his tongue, drawing forth all kinds of sounds. He has to let go of one of her arms so he can open her robes and gain access to her breasts. No sooner has he done this then she’s raking her fingernails down his spine, raising her hips to him. Her breasts are bared before him, her chest is flushed pink with arousal. Her nipples are erect.

He attacks her left one with his mouth, suckling hard and grazing against it with his teeth. She keens. Her legs wrap around his waist.

And he can’t take it anymore. He adjusts himself to press against her sex. She is so wet that it takes hardly any effort to thrust into her.

 _Ahhhhgg._ Bliss courses through him as he’s sheathed by her tight warmth. He’s forgotten just how good it feels.  It hasn’t been three months yet, but it feels like an eternity.

He withdraws slowly and she moans in protest. Her eyes are closed, her mouth is open. He kisses her bottom lip, sucks on it.

“Is that good?” he asks, his mouth hovering against hers.

Her answer is a little whimper. Then he plunges into her again.

“Yes!” Her cry is almost drowned out by his own deep groan. He pulls out slowly again. Her fingers tangle through his hair, she whispers his name. He rams into her and their cries reverberate through the room. His discipline dissolves. He starts to thrust quicker, harder. He plunders her with such ferocity that the bed shakes.

She starts babbling. She’s listing all the things she wants him to do to her. She punctuates each plea with his name. And it’s this, more than anything else, that pushes him over the edge.

His orgasm crashes down on him like an avalanche. Lights burst behind his eyes. His nerves sing from his cock all the way up his spine to the tips of his fingers. A wave of warmth and pleasure washes over him and he is drowning, collapsing on top of her.

**

It’s late afternoon and now the room is bathed in coppery light that tints her pale skin as she rolls him onto his back and mounts him. He laughs as he tucks her hair behind her ear and lets his hand linger on her cheek. He’s not sure what she means to do with him. He feels completely boneless. He won’t be ready for another round for some time yet. Surprisingly, she drops forward, resting her body against his. Skin on skin. She sighs happily. The feeling of her breasts pressed to his chest is maddening and wonderful.  Perhaps he might be ready to go again soon after all. He wraps his arms around her.

“This is nice,” she says.

“I agree.” He can’t stop smiling. Her head is tucked under his chin and he can smell her hair.

“Waiting three months was a foolish idea.”

“To be fair, most of mine are.”

He feels her laughter shaking her body. For _once_ he’s done something right. He trails his fingers down her back. His limbs feel heavy. The afternoon sun is warm, and a gentle breeze drifts in through the open balcony door. He closes his eyes.  


* * *

 

Samson wakes up alone. The room is darker now, the sun has sunk behind the mountains.

She’s sitting at her desk and his heart sinks. She’s working again. She’s gone back into her grief.

But he hears a _crunch_ and through his bleary sleep-eyes, he sees that she’s sitting eating the apple. He smiles and rolls onto his stomach.

 

* * *

 

Warm fingers caressing his cheek wake him. Now the room is dark. A single lamp sits on her bedside table and she is the silhouette of a face before it.

“We missed dinner,” she says.

He reaches for her to pull her back into his arms but she giggles and pulls away. “No. Food first.”

He’s still groggy. “Food?”

She’s pulling him up, handing him his clothes. “If we sneak down to the kitchens, maybe we can find some leftovers.”

It amuses him that they sneak and she doesn’t just ring some bell to wake up a servant and have food brought to her. They creep through the shadowy halls together, passing two of Cullen’s patrols. Samson makes a mental note to tell Cullen to up their training regime. It’s one of Leliana’s scouts who nearly catches them. Those scouts move so silently that it’s pure luck that he sees a shadow against a moonlit doorway and pulls Evelyn into another corridor, where he presses her against a wall and kisses her until the threat has passed.

In the kitchens, she stokes the dying fire, uncovers some bread rolls and boils some water. They sit at the table together. He doesn’t know the hour but it must be late enough that the fortress has fallen quiet and early enough that the kitchen staff aren’t already working on the next day’s meals.

Evelyn looks thoughtful as she chews on her roll. He waits, watching the firelight play off her features.

“Do you believe in the Maker, Raleigh?”

The question surprises him. “‘Course I do.” He doesn’t know quite where to look, but can’t seem to look directly at her. “In case you’ve forgotten, I served someone who visited his so-called Golden City personally.”

She swallows down a mouthful of bread. “Corypheus said his seat was empty.”

“Yea, but it existed didn’t it? Maker exists, he just abandoned us when he realised what a screw up we were.”

She gets up to check the water. “The Chantry says that happened when he met your old friend.”

“Nah.” He watches her behind as she pulls two mugs from a cupboard and starts making tea. “He abandoned us before that. If The Elder- Corypheus had met him, he would have said. But he found only corruption, didn’t he? Got infected by the Blight.”

“The Chantry says-”

“I know what the Chantry says.” He realises his tone is harsh and shifts in his seat, taking a deep breath. “You asked what I believe. I believe the Golden City was corrupted long before he and his fellows got there.”

She’s silent as she pours the hot water. When she places his cup in front of him, he smells chicken. It isn’t tea, it’s broth.

He remembers that room in Sahrnia. He remembers his shame. He suddenly doesn’t have much of an appetite.

She sits down opposite him. “So you’re Andrastian?”

“I didn’t say that.” Why is she suddenly interested? It’s not like he’s ever pretended to be a nice Andrastian boy. Perhaps it’s to do with her family. She isn’t crying, but they can’t be far from her mind.

She quietly sips her broth while he fidgets with his bread roll. “Look,” He says eventually. “I don’t know if I believe… I mean I believe she existed. But, well, I don’t know about the whole Bride of the Maker thing. She was a soldier. A good soldier. But she was betrayed and died. Was nice of her to give us hope, but that’s all there is to it.”

“So you don’t believe I’m her Herald?”

His eyes fly to hers. But she shakes her head and grins. “I’m just teasing.”

He breathes again, looking into his mug. After a while, he says, “If I believe in _anything_ , I believe in you.”

He risks a glance at her. She’s staring at him. The steam from her broth twists up between them, but otherwise there is no movement. She doesn’t even blink. He clears his throat. “It’s not so ridiculous. You are as she was. A soldier, a leader, a symbol of hope. You are loved and followed by the masses, making the world a better place.”

“Raleigh, stop.”

Coming from the family she does, she probably considers what he’s saying blasphemy. Let her. “I believe in you. More than I’ve ever believed in anything. And that’s the truth of it. After what I did…what I’ve done. Most would have taken my head. I owe my life to you. And that’s before we even consider these last few weeks. I’m a changed man. I know it. And it’s all thanks to you. Not some Alamarri bint. You.”

“Raleigh…”

“I love you.”

There, it’s out. He managed the three words in a string without choking on them.

“I love you too,” she says.

His insides startle, even as he’s shaking his head. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I wouldn’t if it wasn’t true.”

“Why?” He glares at her. His heart is pounding.

“What do you mean ‘why’?”

“Why do you love me?” he challenges. “What can someone like you possibly see in someone like me?”

“Clearly something you don’t see in yourself.”

He rises. “So tell me what it is.”

“It’s not just _one_ thing.”

“So list something. Anything.”   
“I…”

“You can’t.”

The roaring in his ears is threatening to overwhelm him. He remembers that day in her quarters when he challenged her to three months. He thought she wanted him for the sex then. It’s still the only thing that makes sense. She’s confusing lust with love. There is no other explanation.

“Raleigh, please calm down.” She rises too, and opens her arms to him. “Come here.”

He doesn’t move. He’s aware of his chest rising and falling. He wants to leave the kitchen, go back to his own dank quarters. That will be easiest. Safest.

She beckons to him. “Come here, please.”

He relents. She wraps him in a hug, pressing her head to his chest. “Raleigh, have you… have you ever _been_ loved?” she asks softly.

They’re standing by the fire and it’s too hot and he’s embarrassed. “You know I haven’t.”

It’s such a sad, pathetic admission to make. He doesn’t want her pity.

“Answer me this. Do you think you _deserve_ love?”

He swallows. It’s an odd question. He doesn’t know how to answer. He closes his eyes, focusing on the feeling of her body against his.

“It’s not a trick question,” she prompts.

“How can I… after everything.”

“I do.”

“ _How_?”

She draws away. “Remember that night a few weeks ago. With the balcony?”

How can he forget? He made her expose herself to the mountains. At least, he thinks she means that night.

“I was so cold. I couldn’t stop shivering. And you held me. You didn’t need to do that.”

“And that’s how I won your heart?” He asks, sarcastically. “If Cullen had only known it was that easy…”

Her eyes flash up to his and he falls silent.

“It’s not just that night. It’s how you comforted me when I woke from that terrible nightmare, it’s how you protected me in Rainesfere, how you didn’t judge me for hiding the mark, for the things we’ve done. The way you reacted in Sahrnia. Your bravery, your compassion. And then today… sitting with me. It must have been for hours. And after… with the…” she clears her throat and he thinks she might actually be embarrassed. Well, that’s new. “Point is, I’ve known since that night you warmed me, you’re a good man. A good, decent, strong, brave man, who’s been kicked down so many times that that part of him has been buried so deep even he doesn’t know it’s there, lest it be mistaken for weakness. But I see it, Raleigh. I fell in love with it. And with you.”

He was planning to comment on her embarrassment, tease her a little. But his mouth hangs open. This man she’s talking about, it’s not him. It’s never been him. A coldness creeps through him, despite the heat from the fire, despite how beautiful she looks in its glow.

He’s been here before, on the precipice of joy. He’s stood on the border of happiness. And it has always, _always_ , marked the beginning of the end. He’s lived a life of extremes, going back as far as he can remember. Wild contrasts juxtaposed, like the stripes of light through the shutters that night in Rainesfere. His mother’s arms, his father’s abuse. His first dose of lyrium, his first failed Harrowing. A first kiss in the whorehouse, a disciplinary hearing. Finally promoted, then tossed onto the streets for a minor infraction. Being rescued, being made a monster… and now this. The brighter the light, the darker the contrast. That’s how it is, that’s how it’s always been. _That’s_ who he is.

“I’m going to break your heart,” he whispers. “One day. I’m going to make a mistake and it will crush you. It’s not safe.” His voice pitches. He wants her to be safe, more than anything.  

When the darkness comes for him, he doesn’t want it to trap her too.

She rises to kiss him. He pulls away. “Evelyn…” it’s a plea.

She shakes her head. “Raleigh, I’m the Inquisitor. Does this face look like it does safe?” 

No, certainly not when there’s a big white scar across her nose left by _his_ weapon.

She takes his hand. “Come on, let’s get back to bed.”

He lets her lead him from the warm kitchen.

 

They do not speak further that night. Not with their voices. She tries to convince him, with her kisses with her touch, how much he means to her. He receives the message. He revels in her love. He’s never felt anything like it and he has craved it all his life.

Nothing terrible happens the next day. Nor the day after that.

They return to their old games. But with a little more kissing, a little more laughter and a great deal more time spent playing with that little nub he discovered.

It’s too perfect. Every day he wakes up in her arms, he knows it. The darkness is brewing. He’s waiting for the storm.

His first inkling of it comes one night as when she wakes him with a cry. Not a nightmare, but pain. She clutches her left hand to her chest and it glows bright. She refuses to let him look at it.

After that, she never takes the gloves off. Even when they’re together. Even when she sleeps. He catches her jerking, or grimacing, when she thinks he cannot see.

He gives her a new pair of gloves for Satinalia. They’re softer than her old ones, and longer. It’s his way of saying he understands.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler alert: Trespasser
> 
> The rest of the story takes place post-Trespasser.

“Where is she? Let me see her!” 

The courtyard is chaos. Word arrived from the Exalted Council a day ago and it’s been 17 hours, 15 minutes and 38 seconds since Samson found out what happened to her and now she’s finally here and they won’t let him near enough to see her. 

The curtains of her carriage are drawn. Her honour guard surrounds it, keeping the pressing crowd at bay. Everyone is panicking. They want to know what will happen to their livelihood, their home, now the Inquisition has been disbanded. But all Samson cares about is her. 

Cullen sent the letter. Cullen thought he’d want to know. Cullen is standing by the carriage, still in his red formal attire. And it’s to Cullen that Samson shouts. If the man hears him, he makes no sign. The carriage door opens, and Samson fights his way forward. He doesn’t care who he jostles, who he bruises. He needs to reach her. 

And there she is. A cloak hides her face. He can’t see the arm. Her guard draws together, creating a human wall between him and her, between the Inquisitor and her people. Cullen guides her gently towards the main hall. 

Samson tries to follow, but there is no way to. 

It’s hours before he’s even able to get into the hall. There are guards blocking the door that leads to her tower.

“Please, let me see her.” He isn’t too proud to beg. Not now. Not when something so terrible has happened to the woman he loves. 

But they are stony-face. “She said no visitors.” 

_ I’m different.  _ But how does he explain that without shaming her? The hall is packed with people. “At least tell her I’m here.” 

“No visitors. That includes us.” 

He argues, but they won’t budge. Eventually he sits on the low stairs of her throne. It says a lot that no one tells him to move. Everything is chaos. The Council darts around addressing concerned nobles. The kitchen staff weave between clusters of people, trying to set up for dinner. 

_ Dinner.  _

They will surely take her supper. He’ll go in then. 

But when someone arrives with a tray for her, they too are turned away. She left specific instructions. No dinner. 

He remembers the apple. When her father passed, she locked herself away and didn’t eat. Eventually she’ll get hungry. Eventually she’ll sneak down to the kitchens. He waits. 

It’s after midnight when Cullen comes to join him. The Commander’s hair is tousled, he looks dead on his feet. He sits beside Samson without a word. 

“How was she, when you saw her?” Samson asks him.

Cullen frowns. “Stoic. Brave. No more than a few hours after it happened, she marched into the chamber and informed them the Inquisition was disbanding. She didn’t even waver. I can’t imagine how much pain she must have been in.” 

Samson’s entire torso aches. He rubs at his chest helplessly. But he continues to ask questions and Cullen continues to answer. The hall has emptied out by the time Cullen’s disclosed everything he knows.

They sit together a while in silence, before Cullen excuses himself to bed.  “She’s no doubt asleep by now, you’d best get some rest,” he tells Samson.

But Samson shakes his head. He continues to wait. 

The door doesn’t open. She doesn’t sneak down for food. A couple of times he catches himself drifting off, but he forces himself to stay awake. As the sky outside the stained glass windows starts to brighten, the Inquisition’s servants begin their day. He smells bread baking down in the kitchen.

His back is stiff and aching from sitting on the stairs all night. His legs keep going numb. He stands and paces. 

Eventually, Cullen returns. He’s clean, back in his usual armour and surcoat, hair combed. 

“Anything?” He asks on approach.

“No.” 

They stand side by side, watching the door. Neither of them acknowledge that they’re waiting for her breakfast to arrive. 

When it does, the guards grumble about it. But Cullen presses them. She didn’t request to be starved, did she? No dinner doesn’t mean no breakfast. 

Eventually they relent. They let the kindly servant pass, but not Cullen, not Samson. She was very particular. No visitors. 

“Tell her Raleigh wants to see her!” Samson shouts to the servant as she disappears down the corridor. He catches a look of surprise on her face before the door is closed behind her. 

Samson sighs and leans against the wall. Cullen stands opposite him, hands resting on his sword hilt. They wait. 

The servant shrieks. 

Samson isn’t entirely sure what happens next. One moment his back’s against cold stone, the next he’s tearing past the guards. He may well have elbowed one in the face. His blood is roaring too loudly in his ears for him to feel the connection as his feet hit the ground. He’s only vaguely aware of Cullen running beside him.

He’s picturing the worst. 

What he finds is not quite the worst. 

She’s sealed herself in her quarters. Her door is caked in ice. 

Cullen bangs on it. “Evelyn!” There is no answer, or if there is one they don’t hear it. He spins to Samson, “Why would she do this?”

Samson knows only that he needs to get to her. He throws himself against her ice wall. Again, again, again. He becomes aware that he’s shouting her name. Also, that a small crowd has gathered. He’s readying himself for a forth assault on the ice when Cullen pulls him away. 

Samson’s breathing in rasping, shaking breaths that come too quickly. She’s cut off all means of contact, all means of supplies. Does she mean to starve herself? 

Or worse. 

What if it’s already too late. What if she’s done something?

The night before she left, he found her standing on her  balcony staring down into the garden. “The Inquisition is my home. It is everything I am,” she said.

The Inquisition is ending. What does that mean for her? Cullen is speaking to him, but Samson can’t hear him. All he can hear is his own rapid heartbeat. He can’t recall ever being this frightened. 

He needs to get to her. He needs to…

There is a way. There is  _ one  _ way. 

He darts past Cullen, too quick for the man to grab him. Then he’s racing down the stairs, through the hall, out into the herb garden. Cullen catches up with him as he pauses to look up at her tower. 

“What are you planning?” Cullen asks. He’s panting. 

Samson shifts to get a better view. He doesn’t answer. He narrows his eyes, stands on his toes. _ Yes, there.  _

Her balcony door is open, just like it almost always is. He pulls away from Cullen and his questions again, jogging across the garden and up the stairs onto the battlements. He’s also panting now. And sweating. Doesn’t matter. 

Cullen is on his heels as he climbs as high as he can possibly go. It’s only half the distance to her balcony. But there’s a buttress, and a window, and uneven stone work. 

“Get that barrel,” he tells Cullen. 

“You can’t mean to -”

Samson doesn’t have patience for Cullen’s hesitation. He grabs the barrel himself and sets it up against the window. The wind is whining around the building. He gets up onto the barrel and hooks his fingers into the stone.

Cullen pulls him down. “Samson, see sense man.”

“Let go of me.”

“This is a fortress. It’s meant to withstand exactly the kind of assault you’re planning. We’ll get some mages to unfreeze the door.”

“That would set the whole place ablaze.” She knows that. 

“We’ve got other weapons, we’ll get through.”

Samson’s chest is heaving. “There’s no time.” 

“You don’t know that. If she means to starve herself -” 

“It’s not a risk I’m prepared to take.”

“But you’re prepared to try climb up a wall!” 

He is. He climbs onto the barrel again. 

Cullen grabs his arm. “Samson. Raleigh. Please. Imagine what it would do to her if something were to happen to you? Rethink this.” 

He hesitates. She’s already lost her purpose, her home, her arm. But he looks up at the balcony and he imagines what could be happening in that room while she’s sealed out all help. 

The mages used to do that. In Kirkwall. Freeze the door while the blood drained from their wrists. One of the more gruesome ways to go. Jumpers were more common. But she’s not a jumper, his Evelyn. Jumping’s too easy. It’s too much like giving up. Watching your life drain away, that’s more like her. 

“I’m going up there,” he says to Cullen. “Please don’t make me hurt you.” 

Cullen’s brow furrows. Then he steps away. 

 

Samson digs his fingers into the wall and hoists himself onto the windowsill. Then he balances, presses himself flat and reaches for the edge of the buttress. He manages, by some miracle, to swing himself up. Perhaps it’s that extra training he’s been doing with Cullen. Or perhaps it’s his _ exercises  _ with her. His arms are strong. Not lyrium strong, but strong enough. 

Then the hard part. The jagged corner of the tower provides grip for one hand and one foot. Wind whips at his jacket. He shoulders it off before it pulls him off balance. It flutters down behind him, like some strange bird. A glance backwards shows him just how far he has to fall. 

Don’t look back. Just look up. 

One small, crumbling, foothold at a time, he creeps up the wall. His limbs tremble with the effort. The wind howls and tears at him. It’s cold enough to burn his skin, and then his skin goes numb. He can no longer feel his fingers, he only knows that they must grip as he inches higher. 

Now he’s head-level with the balcony. The morning sun has made her windows into golden mirrors. He can’t see inside and they hurt his eyes. He can’t move sideways, the stone is too smooth. So he has to move up. Move further up and drop down onto the balcony. And pray. 

One hand, one foot. One foot, one hand. Twice he almost falls. But he manages to grip the cornice. Dangle, swing, let go and...

For a heart-stopping split-moment he is falling. His flailing hands snag the very edge of the balcony, sending a shockwave up his shoulders. His stomach turns to liquid. He’s dangling from the balustrade with bloody fingers.  

He can’t do this alone. 

“Evelyn!” 

His fingers are slipping. The wind whips at his face. 

“Evelyn!” He screams her name so loud it tears at his throat. He’s not going to make it. He’s going to crash onto the battlements. Or onto the mountains below. Another thing she’s lost. 

“Evelyn!” 

Pure force of will alone can’t keep him there a moment longer. He slips.

And she flies through the balcony door and dives for him. She only has one hand to grab him with and she is so light that he almost pulls her off the balcony with him. But he manages to grip the soffit and wrap an arm through one of the balustrades arches. 

“Raleigh.” She’s on her knees. They’re separated by bars once more. Her stub of an arm hangs uselessly at her side and it shocks him, even though he knew what to expect. “What are you doing?” she asks. 

“Rescuing you,” he says. And he laughs because his body is flushed with the rush of near-death. He pulls himself up, over the balustrade, and notices a crowd has gathered below. Cullen is in the centre and he waves. Samson waves back. She’s here, she’s alive.  

While Samson’s distracted, Evelyn retreats from him. When he looks back at her, he finds her hovering in the doorway, staring at him wide-eyed as if he’s the one who’s lost a limb. That sobers him immediately. 

“Why’d you freeze everyone out? They’re worried about you.” 

She wraps her remaining arm across her chest. She’s wearing nothing but a slip. Her eyes are puffy. She looks a mess. “I wanted to be alone,” she says.

He moves towards her. She backs away. She’s as white as the Frostbacks behind her. 

“Hey…” He reaches out to her. She’s looking anywhere but at his face. “Come here, love. Come here.” 

She doesn’t. She stays in the doorway. Her feet are bare. She must be freezing. 

He closes the distance, ducks and lifts her into his arms. It’s like lifting a ragdoll. 

She doesn’t  protest as he carries her inside. 

 

In her quarters, her bags from her trip still sit at the top of the stairs. Her clothes and cloak are strewn across the floor and the bed is unmade. On the side table an empty potion bottle sits on its side. 

He takes her to the bed. The bed where he’s had her so many times. The bed that he’s shared with her off and on for months. Now he kisses her lightly, urging her to take comfort from him. But she turns her head away. 

Is she angry with him? Now he’s safe, his shoulders are aching, his fingers start to sting. He slips into the garderobe to rinse his fingers from one of her water casks. As he exits, he notices she’s covered her mirror with a blanket and his throat constricts. 

He draws a deep breath and seats himself at the edge of her bed. “Cullen told me what happened.”

She’s lying on her side, staring away from him, at the window. She doesn’t respond. He wonders if she’s even heard him. He reaches out, hesitates, then touches her hair. He doesn’t want to frighten her. But she doesn’t react at all to his touch. She just continues staring. 

“I want you to know, I’m here for you,” he says. “You’re not alone in this.”

“Of course I’m alone.” 

She’s right. What a foolish thing for him to say. He can’t know how she feels. He carries on stroking her hair in silence for a while, rooting around for something else to say. 

“I knew a man once who lost his leg. He was fine. Hopping around Kirkwall with the best of ‘em. Getting into brawls. Man, he could throw a punch…”  
  
He stops suddenly, realising what he’s said. He swallows. But she doesn’t react. 

“Point is, it will be fine, Love. You’ll see.” 

She jerks away from him, then turns on him. “No, it won’t be fine.” Her voice is cold, little more than a bark of anger. “How can it be fine, Raleigh? How?”

He stares at her, struck dumb by the hatred in her eyes. He has to say something. She’s glaring at him, expectantly. “Give it time, Love.”

“Oh, will I magically grow another arm in time? Is that what will happen?” 

“No,” he says levelly. “But I’m not going anywhere.” 

“I wish you would.” 

That hurts. Worse than his fingers. But what did he expect, he climbs up onto her balcony and sweeps her off her feet? Then they ride off into the sunset together? On a white horse? Nah, that’s not his story. He has to remind himself that’s not why he came up here. He’s not here for her thanks, for her love. He’s here to look after her. Whether she likes it or not.

“You need to eat,” he says. “You can’t just waste away in here.”

“I expect Cullen will eventually barge his way in.” 

She knows her Commander. Samson expects the same. 

“What do you want me to do, Evelyn? Tell me and I’ll do it. I only want to help you.” 

“I don’t want your help.” Her voice is like the lash of that icy wind outside. “I don’t want anyone’s help.” And she curls up in herself. “I don’t want help.” Then, a sob. “I don’t want help.”  He rests a hesitant hand against her back as she cries. She cries so hard she shakes.   

And his brave Inquisitor, the woman who bested him and his entire army not to mention his master, is at once small and delicate and vulnerable. And he understands why she needed to lock the world out. Not everyone would understand. At a time like this, they need strong leadership. Someone to wrap everything up, tell them it’s all going to be okay. But  _ he  _ understands. There’s only so much a person can live through before they break. And right now, she’s broken. 

“You don’t worry about a thing, my Love,” he says. “I’ll take care of all of it. I’ll keep them away if that’s what you want. I’ll organise everything. You just stay here. You’re safe now.”

The more he speaks, the harder she cries. He doesn’t know how to interpret that so he falls silent. 

After a time, there’s banging on the door again. One great thump. Then another. Too heavy to be a human, but he knows it’s Cullen work just the same. She sits up and stares at the stairs. Her eyes are red and large, her mouth is pressed into a line. She clutches the covers to her chest. Her whole body is tensed. She reminds him of a mouse, hearing the approach of a cat. All that’s missing is the twitching nose. 

“Stay here,” he assures her. “I’ll deal with them.”

Thump, thump. If he didn’t know better, he’d say it was a siege engine. He’s approaching the door when he hears a crack and a cheer. They must have managed to get through the ice on the other side. 

“Cullen!” he shouts. 

There are muffled noises. Then, “Samson? What’s going on in there. Does she need help?”

Cullen must be pressed to the door, but his voice still sounds like it’s coming from very far away. 

“She’s fine!” he calls out. “I’ll stoke up the fire, don’t worry about us.” 

His stomach is empty. He doesn’t fancy going much longer without food, but if they bash the door down, she won’t have any privacy. There will be a constant stream of people fussing over her and asking her to make difficult decisions. 

Cullen says something else. Samson doesn’t quite catch it. “What?”  
  
“I said, what should I say? To the others.” 

Samson looks to her for help, but she’s curled up on her side again. “Tell them she’s busy… she’s... “ his eyes fall on her desk. “She’s drawing up plans. You know. For the future. For what happens to everyone now. And that thing you mentioned. With the elf.” 

“I tell them she’s plotting?” Cullen called back. 

“Yea, tell them that.” 

She’s not plotting. From what he can tell, she’s crumbling. He kneels by the fireplace and stokes up the flames, adding a few extra logs of wood for good measure. Then he goes round the room shutting windows and doors. The warmth should melt the ice. Then he can go get them something from the kitchens.

She doesn’t move the whole time. He’d think she was sleeping, but for her open, staring eyes. 


	9. Chapter 9

Inquisitor Evelyn Trevelyan does not stir when Samson brings her her evening meal. 

It’s late. The stars are out and the lamps he’s lit around the room gutter as he splashes through the puddle by her door. 

 

He left as soon as her ice wall melted, and he was only slightly surprised to find Cullen still waiting outside.  “How is she?”

Samson was hesitant to say anything, what with possibly every ear in the hall listening in. “About as well as can be expected.” 

“You should tell her she’s not alone in this. She has friends who care for her. We want to help.”

Samson nodded and didn’t mention that’s exactly what he’d tried to say and that it hadn’t seemed to go down well. She didn’t want to need help. 

“I will,” he said.

And then Cullen told him that the Council would be holding a meeting in the morning that she needed to attend.  “Do you think she’ll be up to it?”

“I’m sure she will be,” he said, despite his misgivings. 

 

Now, as he approaches her in the dim room, he feels even less certain. She’s still curled up and staring out the window. 

He sets the tray down beside the bed. “Food, Love.”

There is no reaction. He gently strokes a lock of hair from her face. “When last did you eat, Love?” 

“I’m not hungry.”

He can’t imagine how that’s the case. He’s famished. In fact he’s so hungry his hands are shaking. He takes his own bowl of fragrant stew from the tray, hunkers down beside the bed and digs in. 

She makes no move to touch her helping. 

 

An hour later and the stew is cold and she’s rolled over to her other side so she needn’t even look at it. 

Samson makes the mistake of asking, “Can I help you eat?” He’s still seated on the floor beside her bed. 

“No,” she answers sharply. 

“Would you prefer something else?”

“I told you, I’m not hungry.”

“Hungry or no, you need to eat.”

“Who are you to tell me what I need to do?” It’s so unlike her that it sends a shock through him. 

“I’m the man who loves you,” he reminds her. 

“You’re the man responsible for this.” 

The words hit him like a slap. His heart jolts. “What?”

“If it wasn’t for you and your _master_ , I never would have had the mark, I wouldn’t have been reduced to this.” 

Ice flushes through his blood. He cannot breathe. She rolls to glare at him. “This is your fault.” 

Her gaze his hard, filled with utter hatred and the power of it shatters him. 

Then her eyes go large, her lips part. She stares at him as if  _ he’s _ shocked  _ her _ . “Oh, Raleigh. Oh, Maker, I didn’t… I didn’t mean that.” 

She pushes herself up, wildly shaking her head, pressing her eyes closed. “I didn’t mean that at all. I didn’t. I don’t know why I said it. I don’t know why…”

And then she’s sobbing again. He stumbles up and rushes to her, kneeling on the bed and folding her in his arms. The shock of her words hasn’t left him yet, but seeing her in so much pain hurts him worse. 

She wraps her one arm around him and buries her head against him. “I’m so sorry. It’s not your fault. It would have happened regardless. Can you forgive me?” 

“‘Course I can.” He looks down at her. After everything she’s forgiven him for, how could he not forgive her? “You’re angry, it’s understandable.”  She trembles in his arm and he holds her. “I’m here for you. If you need someone to be angry at, might as well be me. Maker knows, I’ve done enough to deserve it, haven’t I?”

She sniffles but doesn’t say anything. 

He reaches over for her stew. “Now will you eat, please?”

 

* * *

 

The morning is grey as the Inquisitor’s mood. Samson spent the night with her, though not in the usual sense. Mostly he sat beside her and watched over her. She slept poorly, tossing and turning as nightmares plagued her. And when she wasn’t sleeping, she was curled up in a mournful ball. 

She’s staring at the sky beyond the window again when he tells her about the Council meeting. She doesn’t make any sign to show she’s heard him. 

When he urges her to get up and offers to help her dress a little later, she rolls over and covers her head. 

In the end there is only one solution. 

 

The Council stares at him as he enters. It’s like that day they sent him to Sahrnia. The spymaster scowls, the ambassador lifts her quill. But the Inquisitor’s place is empty and Cullen’s eyebrows draw together in concern. 

“She’s busy,” Samson explains. “She sent me on her behalf.”

Montilyet massages her temple. “She sent you… this will not do at all. We should reschedule.”

“Reschedule until when?” Leliana asks. “We can’t leave these people waiting for answers indefinitely.” 

“What if we reschedule until later today?” Montilyet asks him. “Perhaps she’ll be able to join us then?” 

He doubts it. But it’s Cullen who steps in. “Let’s proceed. Samson can deliver our decisions to her -” 

“Samson should not be privy to our decisions in the first place.” Montilyet speaks as if he’s not there. “If she needs a proxy, we can use one of the -”

“I’ll vouch for him,” Cullen says. And they all look at him, no one more startled than Samson himself. The commander nods firmly, as if settling something with himself. 

“Can we even trust him?” Leliana asks. She’s looking directly at Samson and her lip has curled slightly. There’s no love lost there. 

Cullen sighs. “Honestly, what does it matter? When we’re done here, there won’t be anything left for him to sabotage even if he did wish to. Evelyn trusts him. That’s good enough for me.”

With that, Montilyet clears her throat. “Very well.” 

 

The meeting drags on for hours. They’re trying to decide what to do with the Inquisition’s lands and assets, working steadily down a list. Samson knows he should pay attention, he needs to report back. But he’s worried about leaving her alone this long. 

When he returns to her room, he finds his concern was unwarranted. She hasn’t moved. 

He thinks she’s asleep, but when he lifts the covers to wake her, he finds her eyes wide. So he kisses her temple, sits on the edge of the bed and tells her all he can remember of the decisions that were made. She’ll need to sign them off, of course. Montilyet will provide the paperwork for her tomorrow. 

She doesn’t even acknowledge he’s there. 

Is she in pain? He asks her but she shakes her head. Does she want something to eat? She only managed half her stew the night before and only because he fed it to her. No, she’s not hungry. 

In the end, he pulls a book down from her shelves and sits and reads at her desk. 

 

A servant arrives at the door with lunch for them. Cullen’s doing, no doubt. And she doesn’t touch hers. Another arrives a little later with urgent paperwork. Samson refuses to let him in, and takes the paperwork himself. He skims over it. It’s simple enough. Letters of recommendation for some of the soldiers, an inventory of the latest supply shipment from Nevarra. He’s spent the the last two years doing paperwork. He forges her signature and gets it out of her way. 

Evelyn drifts in and out of lucidity. Sometimes, out of nowhere, she’ll start crying. He won’t even notice until she draws a shuddering breath or he hears her sniff. Then he goes to her and holds her. She spends a lot of time sleeping. 

 

He arranges for some potions. The kind that take away pain. And then she spends even more time sleeping. 

 

He goes to more Council meetings. He does more paperwork. 

Nobody knows it, but he becomes the Inquisitor. 

 

By the end of the week, he’s making decisions on her behalf. He has a good head for logistics and he has enough command experience that he can yay or nay with the best of them.  There’s something deeply ironic about the arrangement that would amuse him if he weren’t so tired and worried. 

She will not eat unless he begs her. Some days he has to force her, holding her against his chest and pouring gruel or soup down her throat. And she chokes and cries and she tells him she hates him. If he doesn’t wash her and change her clothes and force her from the bed to change the bedding, she is content to stay curled up in the same slip. He even brushes her hair, because he sees it’s getting out of hand. And she screams the first time, but it’s better after that. It becomes a morning ritual, a way to mark the dawn from the dusk. He thinks that perhaps she might even come to enjoy it. Sometimes - very occasionally - she will hum her appreciation as he runs the brush through her silky hair and he will feel hope. 

She isn’t Evelyn anymore. The woman he fell in love with is gone. He prays she’s only hiding, he prays she didn’t die the day the Inquisition did. He prays to a woman he doesn’t believe in, to save the one he does. 

 

Skyhold empties. The armies, the merchants, the peasants and eventually the servants leave. The halls echo. All that’s left are a few stragglers and the Council. 

They meet in an empty room. The war table has gone, the standards are gone. There is only sunlight and dust motes. When the business of the day is done, Montilyet sighs. 

“There’s one more item on the agenda.” She sets down her quill. “The Inquisitor.”

Samson swallows. “What about her?” 

Montilyet exchanges a look with Leliana, before speaking. She drops her voice. “She can not remain here. I have made enquiries with her family and… the members we have received word from said they will not take her.”

Cullen bristles. “I can take her with me to South Reach. My sister has a farm, she’d be welcome there if her own family won’t take her.” 

“Don’t talk about her like that,” Samson snaps before he can stop himself. Hot anger is bubbling in his chest. It came out of nowhere and it’s difficult to control. He fights it down, aware of their eyes on him. “She’s not a lost pup in need of a home.” 

“That’s precisely what she is, and you know it,” Leliana says. “Or did you think we didn’t realise that she hasn’t left her rooms in weeks? At this stage we’re taking it on faith alone that she’s even still alive.” 

“Of course she’s alive!” 

“She might not be for all we’ve seen of her.” 

He steadies himself, closing his eyes and drawing a deep breath. “It’s true, she has been  _ struggling _ . But she’s not helpless. She doesn’t need you to make decisions for her.” 

But she is, and she does. He knows it. 

“Well, what are her plans then?” Leliana asks. “Because she can’t hope to stay here. A place like this needs an army of people to hold it.” 

“She’ll go with me,” he says. It’s past the point of pretense. Anyone who hasn’t noticed that he’s been living in her room is a fool. 

“And where do you intend to go?” Leliana arches an eyebrow. 

“I don’t know. I’ll find somewhere.”  He hasn’t truly thought about it. If he had, he would have realised that they couldn’t remain at Skyhold, they’d have no means of getting supplies. But he doesn’t have land and he doesn’t have money. 

“South Reach is the best option,” Cullen interjects. “You can help me setup my clinic if you like. There might not be much coin in it but -” 

“Wait.” Montilyet taps her quill thoughtfully. “Wait a moment… she has land.” 

“She does?” This is news to Samson. 

Montilyet is still tapping her quill. “When I attended the theatre with her in Orlais, she mentioned that she’d spoken to Varric. He gave her a property in Kirkwall.”

Samson’s stomach tightens. Kirkwall. Of course it would be Kirkwall. 

“I’ll write ahead to him, explain the situation,” he says.

“Are you certain?” Cullen’s eyes linger on him, because Cullen knows the memories that wait for him in that city. 

But he nods. He’d face much worse than memories for her. “Salty sea air, change of scenery. It might do her good.” 

 

So he writes to Varric and he packs her things. What he owns fits within a single suitcase. What she owns could fill several crates. But he doesn’t want to take what he can’t carry. In the end he packs some clothing, the hairbrush, the gloves. Then he takes out the left-hand glove and leaves it on her desk. 

He asks her if there’s anything else she wants. She stares at him, bewildered.  “What do you mean?”

“We’re leaving Skyhold, Love. You need to pack whatever you want to take with.” 

She blinks slowly as the words settle. “Leaving?”

“Yes, Love. You disbanded the Inquisition. Everyone’s gone.”

“Gone…” 

He thinks she’ll cry again, but she doesn’t. She swallows down her emotion and says, “Leave it all.” 


	10. Chapter 10

The Gallows juts out of the mist, a tall white rectangle filled with painful memories. It’s the first they see of Kirkwall once they’re through the black cliffs. Samson is standing at the ship’s bow, an arm tucked tightly around his Evelyn. He brought her up above deck to see her new home.

But all they can see is the mage prison.

Her eyes are wide and attentive and he wishes it was a clearer day so she might see the glittering Hightown, or the mountains, or something other than _that_. Curiously, a slight smile touches her lips. She looks up at him, then down at her hand. She’s withdrawing something from her pocket.

He hasn’t seen it before. It’s a large key.

“What have you got there, Love?”

She looks up at the sky and he thinks he might have lost her again. She’s staring at the chains stretching overhead.

“That’s why they call it the city of chains,” he explains.

One of the chains shudders. He’s never seen them move. People around them gasp too and point up. And he realises her key is glowing. She drops it back into her pocket and leans into him. He’s not entirely sure what just happened, but he’s learned to treasure these moments when tiny pieces of the woman she used to be shine through the blankness.

Maker knows, there have been precious few over the last weeks.

The day they said goodbye to the rest of the Council and set off for Jader, she was as expressive as that statue in Sahrnia. Cullen told her more than once how welcome she’d be in South Reach, both Leliana and Montilyet hugged her. But she shrank from them and only nodded acknowledgement to Cullen.

In the coach, she stared out of the window motionlessly. Samson remembered the tune she hummed the last time they traveled this way and sang a few bars, hoping to get a reaction out of her. But she cut him off with a glare and sank back into her silence.

In Jader, they stayed at an inn. While he checked all the windows and doors, she stood quietly in the middle of the room. It took him a while to notice she was staring into the floor-length mirror that was against the one wall.

She was even more sullen after that.

Now, that hint of a smile gives him hope and he hugs her tightly.

 

* * *

 

“Is that… it can’t be. Raleigh Samson? Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes!”

The dockworker’s grin is gummy. He’s lost his remaining front teeth. His weathered face is even more wrinkled than Samson remembers it.

“Smetty!” Samson drops the suitcases and shakes his hand. “Shoulda known you’d be here.”

Around them other passengers are disembarking. Samson wraps an arm around Evelyn and pulls her close. He’s a little concerned she’ll wander off. More concerned something will happen to her. This is Kirkwall, after all.

“Thought you met your end during that mage business few years back,” Smetty says. “But you’ve cleaned yourself up nice.” His eyes move to Evelyn. Her gaze is downcast. Samson expects Smetty might recognise her for who she is. But of course he doesn’t, few outside of Orlais have seen her face.

“And who’s the pretty lady?” he asks.

“This is my girl, Evelyn,” Samson says.

“I see, I see. You’ve moved back home to settle down, have you?”

“Something like that.”

Smetty thrusts out a hand to her. “Well a pleasure to meet you, my Lady.”

Evelyn stares at the hand and makes no move to take it. Doubt flickers across Smetty’s face. And Samson’s heart leaps into his throat. He doesn’t want the man to take it as an affront, like she believes herself above him.

“She’s, uh. She’s not feeling very well after the voyage, I’m afraid.”

Smetty withdraws his hand and shoves it into his pocket. “Ah, still developing your sea legs are ya? Well I shan’t keep ya. Let me know if you wanna go for a drink some time, Raleigh. You know where to find me.”

He melts back into the crowds and Samson’s senses are assaulted with _Kirkwall_. The stench of rotting fish, rusted iron spikes weeping corrosion into the sea, gulls squawking overhead. Home.

He takes a deep breath, lifts their bags, and starts for the Viscount’s Keep.

“Smetty’s a nice bloke,” he tells Evelyn as she trails by his side. “Runs a fish gutting business. Used to give me leftovers back when, well, you know. Work too, if he had it.”

“Fish guts?” she repeats.

“Yea, that’s his business. I know it doesn’t sound glamorous or anything, but it’s a living.”

“Leftovers,” she mutters.

He sighs. Times like these, he worries whether she’s even sane anymore. “Yea,” he says.

 

* * *

 

He’s forgotten how intimidating the Keep is. There are more guards than there were before. He’s sure of it. Perhaps some of them used to guard the Chantry, which is now little more than a burnt husk. Reconstruction hasn’t quite reached that far yet.

There’s a line outside the Viscount’s office. Prissy nobles jostle for admission.

“Raleigh Samson, as I live and breathe.”

He turns. This person he’s not so enthused to see.

“Lusine,” he greets her curtly. She hasn’t aged a day in the last six years. Her grey bob is sleek, coming to rest just beneath her chin. Up close he can see she’s wearing layers of makeup.

“It’s _Madam_ Lusine,” she corrects him. “And who’s this pretty thing you’ve got here? I was wondering why you stopped visiting my girls.”

He doesn’t want Evelyn to hear this. Likely Lusine knows that and is intentionally making him uncomfortable. She never liked him.

But one glance at Evelyn, and he sees she’s not paying attention. She’s looking around the Keep, taking in the plush furnishings, the high ceilings, the assortment of characters that crowd the place.

“I stopped visiting your girls because you charge too much,” he says to Lusine.

She laughs. “If you want something cheap and nasty, you shouldn’t be looking for it in Hightown, dear.”

Is that supposed to be a dig at Evelyn? He’s not sure. Truth is, he did find cheap and nasty. In the alleys of Darktown. Women as desperate as himself. Some of them didn’t even want coin, just comfort. It disgusts him now to think of it, the depths he sank to to have a warm body, a moment’s satisfaction.

But Evelyn is not that. Evelyn is so much more than that, than Lusine, than all of them. Evelyn is -

“Inquisitor!”

Varric swaggers through his office door. The nobles turn to follow his gaze. _The Inquisitor, here?_ Even Lusine looks over Samson’s head to try see who Varric is referring to. Samson grins as the dwarf comes to a halt beside him.

“Madame Lusine, may I introduce Inquisitor Evelyn Trevelyan of Ostwick?” Samson says.

All colour drains from Lusine’s face and she bows her head. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

Varric chuckles. “Cummon, Red. Let’s step into my office.”

As they move through the crowd of nobles, someone protests “But I had an appointment.”

Varric ignores him.

 

The office is small but lavish. There’s a pile of books on the large wooden desk and a comfortable chair behind it. The seneschal closes the door behind them and Varric pulls a bottle of some amber-coloured alcohol from his desk drawer.

He gestures to two chairs opposite him. “Sit, sit, please!”

Samson helps Evelyn into one of the chairs while Varric pours them each a glass.

When he takes his own seat, Evelyn says quietly, “I’m not the Inquisitor anymore.”

“Oh, I know that.” Varric waves it off. “But the title means something to these people. They'll be delighted to have something to talk about. I’m nothing if not benevolent.” He holds up his glass. “To new beginnings!”

Evelyn, of course, doesn’t move to join. She traces a finger around the rim of the glass, watching the light play in the bright liquid. Varric’s eyes narrow and he exchanges a glance with Samson, before lowering his glass.

“I was surprised to receive your letter,” he says, still eyeing Evelyn.

His tone is serious and it makes Samson’s stomach twist. He was afraid of this. “The way I heard the story, you gifted her land at the Exalted Council. I understand this may have been a symbolic gesture.”

“Oh, no,” he waves away Samson’s concerns. “There is an empty estate in Hightown with her name on the deed, absolutely. It was always meant to be a contingency plan. You know, if the Council didn’t turn out how we hoped. That’s not the part I was surprised about.”

His eyes move to Samson’s. He has an uncomfortably penetrating gaze. “I know why _she’s_ here. Why are you here?”

Of course, why would Corypheus’s Right Hand Man tag along with the Inquisitor. He doesn’t know what to say. There is no explanation that will make sense to someone who knew him best as a beggar, a reprobate, as a traitor.

Evelyn looks up from her glass. Even she senses the tension in the room. Samson swallows.

And then the most surprising thing happens. She moves her hand to cover his. His heart leaps. But there it is, for Varric to see clearly.

He cocks his head, looking at their hands. “Interesting.”

 

* * *

 

Varric escorts them to the estate personally.

“I hope you don’t mind, I had some people clean it up when I received your letter. It had been empty for a while. Spiders and such.”

Hightown is a land of marble pillars, dripping with ivy. Everything pearl-bright and clean.

They’ve only moved a little way down from the Keep when Varric stops. It takes Samson a moment to realise that they’re standing outside a home and not some government building.

It’s two storeys high, draped in vines. A line of narrow windows marches across the top and white archways separate it from the stairs down to the market. It’s in a prime location.

Varric moves to the ornate door and unlocks it. “Welcome home, Comtesse Trevelyan,” he says to Evelyn.

She doesn’t say anything in return, but she drifts past him when he gestures for her to enter.

The room beyond is large and dim. The furniture is draped in white cloth. There’s a fireplace and a hanging chandelier and, beyond that, a grand staircase leading to the second floor. Evelyn stands in the centre of the room, gazing around.

While she’s distracted, Samson says under his breath. “I might need a favour”.

It pains him. Varric’s suspicious as it is. He’s been trying to think of a way to bring it up. But he has no money. He was never contracted to the Inquisition, he was never promised a salary. He was a prisoner, doing his time, payed only a measly stipend to cover living expenses.

“I’m listening,” Varric says.

“You’re well connected. I mean, of course you are. You’re the Viscount.”

“If it’s lyrium you want…”  
  
“No!” He immediately regrets the sharpness of his voice, nervous it will draw Evelyn’s attention. But she’s starting up the stairs.

“No,” he repeats. “I need work.”

“ _Work_?”

“I can find something on the docks, I’d wager. But I don’t know that it will bring in enough to support us both. I was hoping you perhaps had other contacts. Mercenary work. That sort of thing.”

“I’m pretty sure the Inquisitor has money,” Varric says. “I know for a fact that Ruffles always saw to it she got a generous stipend.”   
  
Samson nods. Yes, he knows that. He had to sign off on her share of the treasury too. And he deposited it in a bank in Jader with his own hands.

“I’m not going to spend her money,” he says. “She may want it one day.”

Varric’s expression changes. He looks at Samson differently, but Samson isn’t sure how to read it. Then he takes his elbow and guides him outside.

“Look, Red, I understand what you’re saying, but, hear me out. From what I’ve seen today, it doesn’t look like you should be leaving her while you go make ends meet. You hear what I’m saying?”

“I won’t use her money,” he repeats. It’s not just that he dreads the day she comes to her senses and wants it, although that is a part of it. He won’t use her that way.

“I’m not saying you should. I… look.” Varric reaches into his coat and pulls out a purse. He hands the whole thing over.

“I can’t accept this,” Samson says.

Varric pats his arm. “Think of it as a grant from the City of Kirkwall.”

“A grant for what?”

“I don’t know, for saving the world. If it makes you feel better, think of it like I’m hiring you to take care of her.”

He hands it back. “I don’t need payment to take care of her.”

“No, but you wanted a job. I’m giving you one.”

There’s a crash from upstairs.

Samson pulls away from Varric and rushes inside. “Evelyn!”

His heart is hammering as he hits the top landing. He rushes from room to room looking for her, barely taking note of them. It’s a seemingly endless wash of hulking white linen shapes.

He’s panting as he enters the final room and finds her sitting on the covered master bed. A wrought iron candelabrum is lying on the floor at her feet. She must have knocked it over.

“I was trying to get the sheet off,” she says.

He’s dizzy with relief as he helps her up. He uncovers the bed while Varric explains he had fresh bedding brought in a few days before. Evelyn stands waiting with her arm folded across her chest. As soon as the bed is uncovered she goes and lies down.

Varric stops talking, swallows.

Samson bends to kiss her temple. “We’ll be downstairs, Love.”

As they reach the entrance hall, Varric says, “You’re not doing her any favours, you know.”

The statement is so strange that Samson stops walking. “What?”

Varric turns to him. “She’s been through trauma. It’s understandable that she’s having difficulty coping. But she needs to learn to be self reliant. She can’t do that while you’re fussing over her like that.”

“You don’t know anything about this -” he starts.

Varric holds up his hands defensively. “No, maybe not. But I know _her_. This isn’t her.”

“I know that.”

“If you really want to help her, you need to help her find herself.”

“And who is she?” He demands of the dwarf. “She’s lost her Inquisition, her friends, her family, her arm. Before the anchor she was a mage. Mages are trained to be helpless, to feel like nothing. And now…”

“I get it, Red. I do. And she hasn’t only lost those things. She’s lost her legacy too. When she found out the Inquisition had been corrupted… it broke her heart. To go all that time believing you’re doing good only to realise you’re responsible for nearly destroying Southern Thedas, it’s a terrible thing. Add to that Solas’s betrayal…” he shakes his head. “It’s hit her hard. I can see that. But as long as you let her live inside that head of hers, she’s not going to recover.”

Samson sinks down into a covered armchair. He’s given everything and it’s clearly not enough. It never is. “I’m the wrong man for this. She should have gone with Cullen.”

“Maybe, but she didn’t.” Varric holds out the purse again. “If it helps you, consider it a loan. An _interest-free_ loan.”

Samson watches the purse dangling before him a long while before he reaches up and takes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to bring the key in since she was so enthused to try it in canon. I know that it probably has a lock that it's supposed to fit into, but I figure the shape might also just be symbolic and the whole gate thing could be controlled with a fancy enchantment. 
> 
> Oh, and I know Varric suggested Red as a nickname for Aveline, but neither of them seemed to particularly like it. I figure Red works for Samson because of the red lyrium/red suit of armor/red army.


	11. Chapter 11

The Grand Enchanter stands in the middle of the sitting room. She’s tall and elegant and her very presence makes Samson’s palms sweat. Not that he’d let on. 

“Will you not take my coat?” she asks him with an arched eyebrow. “My, my, you don’t make a very good butler, do you? Where is she?”

As far as first visitors go, Samson could imagine better. Still it’s nice that someone from her old life has come. Others write letters, but they remain unopened. 

“She’s in her bedroom, I’ll go get her,” he tells Vivienne. 

The mage snorts. “There’s no need. It’s you I wanted to speak with. Tea?”

He blinks at her. Then nods. “Have a seat. I’ll only be a moment.”  

He’s picked up a few mismatched mugs and plates from the bazaar. Fancy china doesn’t matter to him. Evelyn can pick some out when she’s up to it. But now he feels conscious of it. He stokes the fire and puts the kettle on. 

Biscuits. He should offer Vivienne some biscuits or  _ something _ with the tea. He rifles around, but he knows there’s nothing. He buys as they need and since Evelyn still has to be convinced of every meal, they need little. 

In the end, he delivers the Grand Enchanter a weak brew in a chipped mug. She scowls at it and sets it aside. Her legs are crossed and she looks more at home on the upholstered chair than he ever will.

“How is she?” she asks. 

He sips his own tea. It’s still far too hot, but it gives him something to do other than stare at her. 

“She’s been better,” he says, honestly. 

“Yes, I would imagine so.” Her gaze is too steady, the entirety of her angular face seems to focus on him. “I shan’t mince words, my dear. This, as you no doubt know, is a particularly precarious time for her. I came here to obtain your assurances.” 

She has a strange way of saying she cares. One that rankles him.  _ Not mincing words, eh? _

“I assure you I am doing everything in my power to make her comfortable and -” 

Vivienne shakes her head. “Oh, no dear, that’s not what I mean at all. I’m talking about demons.”

“Demons?” he repeats dumbly. 

“You were a Templar. You surely know the danger she’s in. I do hear things...”

“What things?” he asks, immediately suspicious. What gossip have these local lowlifes been spreading?  

She frowns. “You’ve been here what? Two weeks? And not a single nobleman in Kirkwall has caught sight of the Inquisitor in all that time.”

Has it really been that long? “She’s been busy setting up the house.”

“Don’t lie to me, dear, there’s no need. I spoke to Josephine before I came here. She confirmed my suspicions. The Inquisitor - I beg your pardon - The Comtesse has fallen into a dreadful melancholy. For a normal mage, such a state of mind is dangerous enough, but for someone of her power… well it could be catastrophic.”

“I understand now. You think she’s gonna get herself possessed? That’s why you came here.” He rises. “She won’t. If you aren’t here to see her, I think perhaps you should leave.”

She rises too. “You misunderstand me, my dear.”

“I’d thank you to stop calling me that.” 

“She presents a danger. And it is my duty as Grand Enchanter to minimise that danger. Now, if you prefer, I hear the Kirkwall Circle has been rein -”

“You wouldn’t dare.” The very thought chills him to his core. 

“ _ Dare _ has very little to do with it. I must do what must be done to keep the other citizens of Kirkwall safe, and I must do my duty for the mages.”

“She won’t get possessed.”

“If she lacks the strength to get out of bed, I highly doubt she has the strength to resist demons.”

“She does.” 

Vivienne narrows her eye. “Does she?” She sweeps past him, back towards the door. “I did you the courtesy of coming personally because I do consider her a friend. But do not misunderstand me. Were you not Templar-trained, the situation would be very different. I need your assurances, my dear. Without them, the Circle is the only acceptable solution.”

“What assurances?” 

“If she does become possessed, I need you to assure me that you will take whatever action necessary to protect Kirkwall. Can you do that?” 

The meaning of her words hits him like a gauntlet through the face. “You want me to tell you I”ll kill her.” 

“If it becomes necessary.” 

When his answer is nothing but stunned silence, she adds. “My sources tell me you were once a good Templar.”

“I was.” 

“You’ve been present at a number of Harrowings, I assume?” 

“A few.”

“And did any of them fail?”

He nods.

“So you understand the necessity then.” 

He wants to tell her that he couldn’t kill Evelyn, that he’d sooner kill himself. But if he says those words, they’ll come for her and throw her in the Gallows. His chest tightens.  He remembers the ice door. He remembers blood. 

So he cocks his head, offers what he hopes is a smile. “If anyone’s good at following unpleasant orders, it’s me.”

She returns his smile, showing no teeth. “That’s what I hoped. We may not like each other, but we have one thing in common. We both know how to make the difficult decisions for the greater good.”

He feels sick. He wants her to leave so he can go hurl up his guts and his self-hatred. 

Something of that feeling must show on his face, because her look softens and she touches his cheek. He startles. “If you were indeed as fine a Templar as you say, you will know the signs. If it comes to that, consider the Circle. We may be able to help her, before it’s too late.” 

 

As soon as the enchanter leaves, Samson pounds up the stairs.  He doesn’t go throw up. He doesn’t even know where he’s going until he’s there. But of course, as soon as he enters the room it makes sense.

Evelyn is curled up in the centre of the bed, as she always is. She’s asleep. Or at least, it seems that way. Sometimes it’s difficult to tell. Her skin his ghostly pale, almost as pale as the sheets. He sits down next to her and tries to control his rapid breathing, his rapid heartbeat. 

He strokes her hair and she stirs.  Bleary eyes look up at his. 

“Are you fighting demons?” he asks her. 

She blinks away sleep. “I don’t understand.” 

“In your dreams. Are they trying to tempt you?” He’s too panicked to be anything but direct. 

She looks at him for a long while. “The demons don’t want me anymore,” she says eventually. Then she turns from him to go back to sleep. 

He takes a deep breath. He should feel assured, but he doesn’t. 

 

* * *

 

  
Varric’s words weigh heavily on Samson while he watches his love sleep. 

_ You’re not doing her any favours, you know… as long as you let her live inside that head of hers, she’s not going to recover. _

He told himself that the dwarf was wrong, that she only needed time. Time and love and comfort enough and she’d come back to him. He’s been giving her what she needs as she needs it. His days have been bracketed by her calls. He lives for them. When she asks for food, or water, or  _ anything.  _ And he didn’t mind because serving is one thing he does know how to do. And after all the love she showed him, he is happy to serve her for the rest of his life if need be.

But this new threat, it’s something else. 

He’s taken the room next to hers, but this past night he didn’t go there once. He sat with her, watching for signs of nightmares, signs of struggle. How, after all of his training, did it not occur to him how much danger she was in? 

Something has to change. 

Decisively, he gets up and yanks the curtains open. Light floods the room for the first time since they moved in. The grey walls turn white, the wooden floor shines and on the bed Evelyn groans and pulls the covers up over her head. 

He tears them off. “Good morning, Love.”

She glares at him through slit eyes. 

“It’s time to get up,” he says. 

“Leave me alone.”

He ignores her. “I thought today we could spend some time in the garden. I haven’t been out there yet myself, I’m curious to see what we find. Knew a bloke once, grew his own vegetables.”

He pulls a robe out of the cupboard where it’s been hanging since he unpacked it and tosses it to her. “It’s a little chilly out, so I wouldn’t recommend traipsing around in your nighty.”

She pushes herself into a sitting position, staring at him like he’s a stranger. “Why are you doing this?”   


“Because it’s time, Love. It’s a beautiful day. Let’s make the most of it, yes?”

She blinks and looks down at the robes at her feet. “I… I can’t.” 

“What can’t you?”

Evelyn swallows, looks at the robes again. He knows what she means but he forces himself to wait.

_ If she lacks the strength to get out of bed, I highly doubt she has the strength to resist demons… _

He considers telling her what Vivienne said about the Circle, but decides against it. A threat might spur her to action, but it might also completely overwhelm her. Besides, he doesn’t want her to know that Vivienne was here and didn’t even ask to see her. 

Slowly, she reaches out for the robes. She holds them up to him. “I can’t.”

“Will you try?”

His words aren’t harsh, but she recoils from them. 

He doesn’t go to her. He folds his arms. “Get dressed.”

So many times he’s stood the same way before her, curled his lip and said the exact reverse. He’s used to watching her nervous fingers fidget down lines of buttons while she can only guess what he has in store for her. Now she responds to that tone, tugging at her slip with her right hand.

He watches her struggle. It’s a simple task, but she’s never attempted it with one hand before. She manages to get the stump through but gets stuck on the right arm. Eventually she slips her head through and then manages to get the other sleeve off. His heart is pounding but not with desire. He’s worried for her, he’s worried he’s going to make things worse. 

She’s shivering and he wishes he knew why. Is she frightened, ashamed, cold? He waits while she finds the bottom of the robes, slips them over her head and then struggles to get both arms through. But she manages.

“You see,” he says. “You can.”

 

The door to the garden leads off the kitchen. He wraps her in a woolen blanket before unlocking it. 

It’s as overgrown as he expected it to be. It’s essentially a courtyard with an old well in the centre dating back to before there was a pump installed in the kitchen itself. A scraggly tree grows out of the well now. A number of flower pots and punnets are scattered  beneath it and the walls are bordered by empty flowerbeds. 

She frowns at it, pulls the blanket tighter. 

“What do you think?” he asks. 

“I’m cold.” 

“I’ll make us some tea.” He sits her down on the edge of the well. It smells like marshland. She wrinkles her nose.

When he comes back a little later with a tray, he finds her in the same place, staring down into the darkness. 

“See anything down there?” 

“No.”

He passes her a mug. “So, vegetable garden? What do you think?”

She shrugs and doesn’t accept the mug. “Can I go back now?”

Part of him wants to let her. She’s done a lot more already this morning than she usually does. Sunlight dapples her skin and she squints against it, obviously uncomfortable. 

“If you finish your tea,” he says carefully. Then adds, “and your breakfast.”

She frowns, nods. This is an acceptable arrangement. His heart leaps. If he can get her to eat willingly...

“What would you like to eat?” he asks. 

She shrugs again. 

“Eggs?” he suggests. He got some from the market two days ago. 

“If you like.”  
  
“But what do you want?” 

“I don’t want anything, Raleigh.” The use of his name is an accusation, but it’s good to know that she at least recognises him. 

“Well, I can give you eggs, bread with cheese, or cook up some oats for us. You like porridge don’t you?” She seemed to like it well enough in Sahrnia, although perhaps she was only being polite. “Or, I can go to market, get you something else?”

“I don’t mind. It all tastes the same.” 

This is news to him, though he supposes it shouldn’t be. “All of it?”

She nods but doesn’t elaborate. 

 

The next day he goes down to to the market before she wakes. It’s a crisp morning, but bright. It must be coming up to Wintersend soon. He realises he has no idea of the date. He missed First Day and he doesn’t even know if he missed it while they were at Skyhold or here. 

He browses the posh stalls he’s never looked at before. He’s conscious of taking his time - what if she wakes and needs him? - but the market is so close to her home, that he isn’t too concerned. This morning she will have the best. 

When he returns, his arms are laden with treats. There’s a spring in his step when he goes upstairs to wake her. 

“Good Morning, Evelyn.”

“This again?” She groans. 

He dumps his purchases at her feet. “There’s a stall at the market that imports fruit. I found peaches. Peaches! At this time of year. And plums, too.” 

He watches her face. He’s hoping for a reaction. And he curses himself for being disappointed when there isn’t one. Still, her blank stare is painful. He clears his throat. “There were nuts too. Almonds.” He picks up the little velvet bag to show her. “Oh, and this as well. From Orlais, apparently.” It’s a box tied with ribbons like a gift. “They call it chocolate. The stall keeper assured me it’s the best sweet they have.” 

Still, she stares at him. Disappointment is the feeling of his chest caving in. 

“Why are you doing this?” she asks him. 

_ To cheer you up, to make you smile.  _ He doesn’t speak, he doesn’t trust himself. 

“I told you yesterday that I can’t taste anything,” she says, and there’s anger in her tone now. “Why would you bring me a new, delightful, variety of things to not taste?” She kicks her legs, and a couple of plums roll onto the floor. No doubt bruised, if not squashed. 

He doesn’t move. She’s right. Why did he think this was a good idea? “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he says. “I will make oats for us again, we can eat in the garden.”

 

She goes to the garden as reluctantly as the day before. She watches him pull weeds as the porridge cooks. 

“I’d like you to stay out a bit longer today,” he says eventually. He’s speaking through his teeth, fighting with his own emotions, channeling them into his work. The plants stain his fingers and tear at his palms. 

“Why?” she asks. 

“Would it matter if I said I missed you?” She doesn’t answer and a glance at her reveals only her blank expression, the one he’s becoming accustomed to. “No, I suppose not.”

His heart aches. She’s still locked behind that ice wall. Nothing he’s done in the time since she got back to Skyhold matters. All he’s doing is keeping her body alive. 

He wants to tell her to go back to bed. It hurt less when he was methodically caring for her. But he won’t leave her to the demons. Or the Circle. He has to keep trying. 

“Okay,” she says, startling him. 

He looks around at her. She shrugs. 

“Okay, I’ll stay a little longer. If that’s what you want.” 


	12. Chapter 12

“Good morning, Evelyn, my Love.” Samson throws the curtains wide.

It’s been a week since he started doing this and her reaction hasn’t improved. She grumbles, rolls over onto her stomach. He takes the last clean robe from her closet and tosses it onto the bed. 

He ignores that staccato thrumming of his heart as he says to her, “I was thinking today we might do something a little different." No reaction. He continues. "There’s a washerwoman in Lowtown I’d like to pay a visit. Realise I still owe you a tour of the city. We could make a day of it. What you say?” 

As he predicted, she doesn’t say anything at all. No matter, he’s prepared the pitch. 

“I could show you some landmarks. The new statue of the Champion down at the docks, the courtyard where my dear old Knight Commander turned to red lyrium. The Hanged Man pub.” He snorts. “And the corner I used to call home, if you so desire. Oh and the market, you haven’t seen the marketplace yet have you?” It’s a rhetorical question, he knows she hasn’t. 

To his surprise, she frowns and then nods. 

She doesn’t offer any protest as he bundles her in her dragonling scale travel jacket, puts on her single glove. 

It’s only when they’re at the door that she backs away from him. She’s staring at it like it’s some sort of beast. Her chest starts rising and falling rapidly. 

“Evelyn?” 

She blinks, draws in a breath. “They’re going to look. They’re going to see.” 

“Who’s going to?” He reaches for her. “You’re making no sens-”

She pulls away. “My arm. They’re all going to see it. They’ll stare. They’ll point. I’m a, I’m a  _ freak _ .”

“You’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“You’re a hero. You lost that arm saving the world. They all know it.”

“I’m broken.” Her voice cracks. 

He pulls her round to face him, bending his knees slightly so he can look her in the eyes. “Now stop that. You’re not. When we were last out together, the day we arrived, no one pointed. Not one person.”

Her eyes are dark, frightened, orbs in the dim light of the sitting room. He has an idea. He shrugs off his own coat. It’s large and black, one of the first things he bought when he started getting his Inquisition stipend. He saved up for a few weeks to be able to afford it, but after the last harsh winter in Kirkwall, he hadn’t ever wanted to face the cold again. 

“Here.” He drapes it around her shoulders. “Now no one can see your arms at all, alright?” 

She looks at him doubtfully. He kisses her nose and pulls up the hood.

* * *

 

Sunshine glances off the marble columns and archways of Hightown and the air tastes fresh and new. It rained the night before and puddles gather where the stone walkways are uneven. 

True to Evelyn’s fears, a few people do turn and stare at them as they walk down to the market. Samson sees a pair of noblewomen leaning together to whisper. But he knows they’re not remarking on the state of the Inquisitor, but rather that she is out in the streets.  No doubt half of Kirkwall believes he murdered her for her wealth or was keeping her locked up in the basement. 

 

He has their laundry in a sack over his shoulder, and he has his other arm tightly around Evelyn. She’s pressed so close that even if she had an arm on that side, no one would be able to tell. He can’t see her face for the hood, but she keeps pace with him well enough despite the looks.  

They dally in the market a while looking at trinkets. A piece of dwarven clockwork is the only thing to catch her attention. She watches the little cogs turning together, each one moving the next. But when he offers to buy her the strange instrument, she shakes her head. He wonders what drew her to it. 

Next, they venture into Lowtown. He finds Anise in the same spot as always, her raw fingers scrubbing, steam rising from her basin. She greets him in a thick Ferelden accent and it’s clear she doesn’t recognise him. Not all that surprising. He was never a client before. She used to empty her sudsy water into the canal and occasionally they’d exchange words, swap news. He knows she’s good and honest and works hard. A refugee from the Blight, came over in one of those boats with two small children. He’s happy to pay her double her usual fare to clean the clothes and tells her he’ll be back for them the next day. 

At some stage, Evelyn’s hood comes off. Perhaps she lowers it herself because it obscures her view of the town. She looks around with eyes the size of silver pieces as if amazed such a place can exist at all. It is quite the architectural wonder. Built by slaves, he tells her, carved out of the mountain itself. It’s a labyrinth of ramshackle hovels and it smells like dust and smoke .

On a clear day like this, they can see Hightown overhead. He points out their house. The balcony that neither of them has set foot on sparkles in the morning light and he can just make out the well-tree, poking over a wall. 

 

Her interest in Lowtown was encouraging, but she is as unimpressed by the statue of the Champion down on the docks as she was when Samson pointed out the mansion near hers that he thinks belonged to Messere Hawke. She fidgets and prefers to watch the dockworkers or the gulls screeching above them. 

They take the ferry to the Gallows. Samson’s uncertain. He’s not sure if she’ll appreciate seeing that place or if it will just enhance her melancholy. Funny how he's spent the last six years trying to forget it and now he's going there willingly. A chill wind whips off the ocean and he wraps his arms around himself to stop from shivering as he watches the island fortress draw nearer.  

The courtyard is no longer filled with those ghastly slave statues, but the Gallows remains a sight to behold. Red lyrium juts out in odd places, and the stark stone walls are as foreboding as ever. He read somewhere that the place was designed to make whoever entered it feel as hopeless as possible. 

Still, he’s unprepared for the emotional impact seeing the old barracks has on him. So many memories. So many firsts within those white walls. Looking around the courtyard, he expects to see Maddox selling trinkets, or Cullen lecturing one of the new recruits, or Thrask shaking his head sadly. Scheming old bastard. He doesn’t recognise any of the Templars there now. It’s an island of ghosts. 

Evelyn’s hand slips into his. 

Warmth from her unexpected touch shoots up his arm. He looks at her, stunned. He can’t even remember the last time she showed him affection. 

"Samson?" 

He wants to ignore the voice. He wants to shut out everything except the feel of Evelyn's hand in his. But he knows he can't, because he knows the voice. 

He turns and the redhead smiles, jutting out her large chin. “Thought it was you. And this must be the Inquisitor.” 

“Guard Captain Aveline,” he greets her, tries to return the smile.

Evelyn averts her yes, pulls her hand back and hugs herself. A curious reaction, and one that the Guard Captain’s sharp eyes no doubt pick up. But she doesn’t say anything about it. Instead she comments, “Varric told me you were back in town. What brings you to the Gallows?”

“It’s part of the tour, isn’t it? Pity they’ve moved Meredith. I’m sure Evelyn would have liked to see that, isn’t it so, sweetheart?” 

He hoped to coax some kind of response from her, but now she stares at Aveline with her large mournful eyes and Samson’s primary concern instantly becomes to get her away. 

He hooks an arm around Evelyn’s waist. “It was nice seeing you, Guard Captain. If you don’t mind-”

But Evelyn resists. She stands firm and lets out a small choked sound.

Aveline’s brow furrows. “Is something the ma-”

“I’m so sorry,” Evelyn says in a rush. She shakes her head. “So, so sorry.” 

“Whatever for?” 

Samson wants to know too. 

Evelyn’s eyebrows draw together. “Hawke.” 

Samson looks between the two of them. He half expects Aveline to be as confused as he is. But she nods. “Ah. Yes, well, I’m sure you did what you could.” 

And Samson remembers vaguely hearing something about the Champion joining forces with the Inquisitor. Something about them thwarting The Elder One's plan with the Wardens. But he never learned the details. 

When Evelyn doesn’t immediately say more, Aveline adds, “He was always like that, you know, charging into danger. Was only a matter of time before it didn’t work out in his favour.”

And Samson realises that Hawke must be dead. And that it must somehow be Evelyn's fault. No wonder she took no interest in his mansion, or his statue. A crushing weight fills his chest. This is the _last_ thing she needs right now. His fingers clench with the urge to pull her away, rescue her. 

But she's still talking.  “He always spoke highly of you,” she says to the Guard Captain. “He told me he considered you a sister.” 

Aveline smiles sadly. “We went through a lot together. From what Varric’s told me, he died a hero. He always wanted that. You needn’t blame yourself, really.”

She doesn’t stay long after that. They pass a few more lines of awkward conversation and then she has urgent duties elsewhere. 

As they watch her walk away, Evelyn says in a low, flat, voice, “It was my choice.”

He's not sure whether she's talking to him or finishing a thought she meant to direct at Aveline. But then she turns to him and says,  “I had to choose who died. I chose him.”

Samson has no words. She spoke once about choices, about lives in the balance and her war table decisions.  _ I’ve made mistakes too _ she said. Was this what she meant? 

She doesn’t deserve that. To do so much good and still carry that kind of guilt. 

He wraps his arms around her and pulls her close. 

 

* * *

 

Samson is guiding Evelyn back through Lowtown when she suddenly grabs his arm. “This is the way home.”

“Yea, it is,” he says carefully. He’s not sure what she means by it. Perhaps she’s trying to learn the layout of the city. That would be nice. A sign that she might venture out again. 

Her expression becomes puzzled. “You… you were going to show me where you lived.”

His chest tightens.  “I showed you the Gallows,” he chances. “That’s the place that matters. Lived there for many many years.”

 “That’s not what you said this morning.” 

 He doesn’t know whether to be more surprised that she was listening to what he said, or that she cares about that particular site. 

 “It’s not much to see.”

 “I’d like to.”

 She hasn’t wanted anything in so long that he has no choice but to oblige. 

  

He’s forgotten how bad the canal smells. Or perhaps it smells worse now. Perhaps there’s red lyrium down there rotting the fish (there isn’t, he’d be able to tell). 

Evelyn looks around with interest once they’ve stopped. Stairway behind her up to the bazaar, stairway below down to the place where Anise lives with her brats and five other families. And the canal flowing under them, green and murky. 

“It’s not much, but it has a nice view,” he says to break the silence. 

Evelyn nods. Her eyes fall on the doorway to Anise’s hovel. “Down there?” she asks. 

His stomach leaps. He clears his throat, sticks his hands into his pockets. He’s feeling cold again. “Uh, no, Love. Here.” 

She tilts her head, examining his expression as if trying to work out whether he’s joking. “But there's not even a roof,” she says. 

“Yea, but there’s a wall.” He’s feeling oddly defensive. He points at both sets of stairs. “Only two ways to approach and you can see both of em.” 

She turns on the spot as if searching for something that's not there. 

“Look, I told you it’s not much to see. You know what I come from. You think I would have followed Corypheus if I had a nice little home with a hearth waiting for me? Chantry gets you hooked on lyrium, you don’t have much option. Dust or you die, typically. And Dust is illegal, so it’s expensive. Sure, I could’ve lived in Darktown, squabbled with the filth for the right to breathe.” He did, at first. “But this here is better. No one bothered me. Defensible. And people knew where to find me when they had work or scraps or -” He stops because she’s looking at him with such pity that he wants to jump right into the canal and drown. 

 “What about when it rains?” she asks.

 “You get wet. Cummon, let’s get home.”

She’s silent as they walk and that’s not really new. This is different though. This isn’t her being lost in her grief or bewildered, this is her not knowing what to say to him, Samson, her own pet street rat.  


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have notes (sorry)!  
> 1\. I'm making the assumption in this chapter that normal herbs exist alongside the special ingredients they use for potions. I looked into this for another fic and never found a conclusive answer.  
> 2\. A few items in this chapter are anachronistic. While I try to stick to medieval stuff, I think with a combo of Dwarven engineering and Tevinter history, Kirkwall is probably quite advanced in comparison to a lot of the world.  
> 3\. This is an explicit chapter! As before, if you wanna skip the smutty bits, don't read the bits between the **s. :)
> 
> We're coming up to the end of the story now. I have one more chapter planned and *maybe* an epilogue. Thanks so much for sticking with Samson and for all of the encouraging comments.

Samson digs his fingers into the soil. It’s soft and mulchy, just as he hoped. And it smells good, smells like rain. He breathes in deeply and closes his eyes.

He sees forests and fields, places he’s never been. Green, leafy, sun-dappled. No templars, no lyrium, no bird-shit-stained beggar corners. No churning oceans and roiling stomachs and jumpers and twisted monsters who were once his men. Just the quiet of the wind stroking the branches above his head. Budding flours. Bumblebees. And peace.

“Raleigh?”

He jerks from his thoughts and yanks his hands free of the flowerbed he’s been weeding. Evelyn is standing in the doorway, wrapped in a blanket.

“Do you need something, Love?”

It’s been a few hours since they returned from the tour of the town and he expected her to sleep for the rest of the day. Perhaps she was calling for him and he didn’t hear her.

She’s chewing on her lip, her brow is furrowed. “Are you happy here?” she asks.

This must be about Kirkwall, about the Gallows. He shrugs. “Yea, it’s not so bad, really. Not as bad as I expected. Long as I don’t have to see that mage prison too often.”

“No, I mean, _here_. What do you do all day?”

This interest is new. He rises slowly, as if moving too fast might startle her. “Oh, I keep busy. There’s chores to be done. And there’s correspondence to keep. And this here garden, of course. Bit of a pet project now.” He wipes his hands on his trousers while he looks around. It’s not much yet, but he’s managed to pull half of the weeds. Should be able to plant soon. He realises she hasn’t said anything and turns back to her. She’s wide-eyed and startled.

“Do I at least pay you?” she asks.

He blinks. “What?”

She gestures to the garden. “Am I at least paying you, for your service?”

 _What brought this on?_ “I don’t require payment for taking care of you.”

He realises as soon as he’s said the words that that must have been the worst possible answer. She backs away from him, a look of horror on her face.

“Then I’m no better than your other masters.”

“ _What_?” He starts towards her, slowly and carefully. Is she sleep walking? Is this some kind of nightmare? She’s making about as much sense as if it were.

“If you’re doing all this work, and I’m not paying you, I’m no better than them, am I?”

“It’s not the same at all. I _love_ you.”

“Did you not love Corypheus? And the Chantry? When you served them?”

Her words bite. He’s shaking his head, reaching out for her. “Love, please calm down. You’re making no sense.”

She dances away from him. “I’ve made you a slave.”

“That’s rubbish and you know it is. Come here.”

She stands staring at him, her chest rising and falling so fast he thinks she might faint. “Who’s paying for all this? Tell me it’s me, Raleigh. Tell me it’s me.”

“No,” he doesn’t want to say anything that might further upset her, but he can’t very well lie to her either.

“I have money, I’m sure I do. The Inquisition…”

“Yes, you have money. We deposited it in Jader. You were with me. Don’t you remember? Big stone building, man with a golden mask? Magically sealed vault?”

She’s looking at him the same way she looked at the door earlier that day. “Peaches… with your…. You didn’t. And I…”

He understands, he thinks. “No, not my money, no. Varric. Varric gave me a loan. Said I can pay him back when you’re better. It’s all okay, Love. Everything’s fine. You needn’t worry.”

“What were the payback terms?” she asks. “Did you check the interest?”

It’s the most sense she’s made in weeks, but at what cost? If the cost of her lucidity is this terror, then the price is too high. “No interest. Varric cares about you. He wanted me to take the money as charity, but I refused. I want to provide for you, Evelyn. And I want to care for you. You’re my girl, aren’t you? I’m not your slave, or your servant. I’m your love... aren’t I?”

And he hates himself for asking her for confirmation when she’s so spooked, but he remembers her vitriol, the way she blamed him for her current predicament. She took the words back soon as she said them, of course. But that doesn’t mean she isn’t still feeling them.

And these past weeks, he hasn’t even dared to ask where he stands with her. He’s just wanted her to be well. He’s missed her fiercely. He’s grieved her, truth be told. He’s lain awake at night, staring at the ceiling and feeling cold and empty as if she died and wasn’t right there in the next room.

Now every moment of her continued silence is agony as she looks out at the garden. Her mind is ticking, like that Dwarven clockwork in the market. He needs to wait, needs to let her decide.

“I’m sorry,” she says eventually.

He realises he’s been holding his breath only when he realises he has none left to answer her. What does that mean? She’s not looking at him. Does it mean she no longer feels anything?

‘Course it does. She doesn’t feel anything, the way she doesn’t taste anything.

“It’s alright, Love,” he says. And it takes all of his courage to keep the words from betraying how his heart aches. Should he even call her that? Does it make things worse for her?

She turns back to him, slowly, as if in a trance. “You deserve more than this.”

 _No I don’t, we both know that._ But before he speaks, before he finds his words, she adds, “I’ll try to be better from now.”

He’s still processing that, when she swallows and asks, in a softer voice, “Is it alright if I sit with you here a while?”

“Yes,” he breathes. “Yes, I would like that very much.”  


* * *

Their garden starts to grow. He plants carrots and radishes and peas. The woman at the market says it’s the right time of year for them.

Evelyn sits and watches. She remains as quiet as ever, but he can tell she’s trying. She eats what he gives her, even when he knows it isn’t very good. He’s never learned to cook, never had the opportunity. But he’s figuring it out for her sake. She gets tired easily. He doesn’t resent her that. He lets her see herself to bed when she needs it and goes in later with a meal and to brush her hair.

One day, with his fingers deep in the soil, he’s telling her a story about some mischief he got up to in the templar barracks. Boyish stuff, back when that kind of thing was permitted. She comes and kneels beside him.

“May I try?”

His voice completely leaves him. He must appear something like a fish as he opens and closes his mouth. She doesn’t see. She’s examining the flowerbed with a calculating expression.

“I pull out those, right?” she indicates one of the weeds. The little heart-shaped leaves of his first radish crop poke out between them.

“That’s right,” he says. “And if they’re particularly stubborn, I find it helps if you use this.” He passes her the small trowel. He found it with the other equipment by the well, it’s rusted but functional.

“I understand.”

She’s sitting close. Close enough that he can almost feel the warmth of her skin. He watches in stunned silence as she bites her lip and angles the trowel at one of the weeds experimentally. Sunlight plays off her pale face, brushes her scars. She’s Evelyn and he wants to kiss her. But it’s enough for her to be there, to be taking an interest in _something_. He clears his throat and continues with the story, trying to act as if nothing untoward has happened.  


 

* * *

 

  
She’s using one hand for everything, so by the end of the afternoon she’s covered in dirt. It’s streaked across her cheeks, dabbed behind her ear, soaked into her knees. It’s even, somehow, in her hair.  

“What am I going to do with you?” Samson asks. His heart is light. Lighter than it’s been in weeks. They’ve spent two hours, maybe even more, working together side-by-side.

She blinks at him in obvious confusion.

He shakes his head, touches her nose. He realises he needs to be sensitive, not say anything that might discourage her. Still, she’s quite the sight. “I should fetch you a mirror.”

“Oh,” she manages a small smile. “That bad?”

“Worse, possibly.”

She frowns and his heart stutters. _Don’t mess this up. Don’t mess this up._

“I have an idea.” He snatches the iron bucket from the pile of gardening implements. “Wait here.”

She doesn’t, she follows him inside and leans against the kitchen counter, watching him as he stokes the fire, pumps water.

“Care to share?” There’s something of old Evelyn in the arch of her eyebrow, in the way she’s standing.

“There’s a bathtub in one of the rooms upstairs.” He huffs as he pumps. “Figure you might like to try it.”

“Raleigh… you can’t hope to fill it yourself. With that bucket. How many trips will it take?”

A lot. He pulls one of the cooking pots down from a shelf. It will take fewer trips with two containers.

“I’ll just wash up here,” she says. “I don’t mind the cold water.”

He ignores her protests. “Herbs are good for baths aren’t they?” He’s not sure, he’s never had a private bath before. But he has some herbs suspended from the ceiling above the stove that he’s been using for cooking. He’s always liked the smell of the rosemary, and he pulls down a clump of sage as well.

She surprises him with a chuckle and it’s his turn to stare. Laughter. _Oh, Evelyn. Oh, Love. Is this real?_ He wants to know what he did to elicit such a sound.

“Something funny?”

“Sage,” she says.

He feels a little self-conscious. She’s probably amused because it’s a food herb. Like he’s trying to boil her for dinner or some such. “Sorry I -”

“In Tevinter they burn it. It’s… it’s supposed to heal emotional trauma and ward off demons.”

“You’re playing with me.”

She shakes her head. She offers that little smile. “It’s superstition though. Nothing more.”

Wordlessly, he tugs down another bunch.

* * *

 

It takes him near on an hour to fill the claw-foot bathtub. Evelyn eventually goes to wait for him in her room.

He half expects to find her asleep when he goes in to tell her the bath is ready. The sky has grown dim and tall shadows paint the floors.

But when he enters the room, he finds her propped up on one of her pillows, naked and waiting. The lamplight dances across her body. Her shining hair cascades over her breasts. It takes all of his training and discipline not to go to her. He _wants_ to, he wants _her_. He feels dizzy with desire. He clutches the sheet he took from the linen cupboard to his chest.

“Your bath awaits, My Lady.” He gives her a slight bow and she smiles as she rises for him and he feels himself rising for her. _Maker._

The steam twists out of the tub like a lazy dancer. The rosemary and sage combine into a heady mix. The sage’s scent is dominant. It’s sharp and it tickles his nose. It makes him think of dense woodlands. The rosemary is sweeter, a little bit like pine trees and frost with a hint of lemon.

He helps her into the bath and she sighs as she sinks into the water. The room is dim, with the curtains drawn and a single candelabra in the corner. Still, he can see every inch of her. He remembers a fantasy he had once of lathering her in soap. Funny how things turn out.

He dips the bar into the water and starts with washing her hand. Every finger requires his attention, especially beneath the nails. She rests her head back and he wants to freeze that moment because she looks so happy. Next he uses a washcloth to clean her face. He enjoys tracing the curves of it. He’s cleaned her many times now, but never with such deliberation.

“Will you do my back?” she asks.

“Of course.”

She turns in the tub, holding onto the edge with her hand and turning her back to him.

Then the hand slips.

She shrieks, floundering for grip with a second hand that no longer exists. Her entire body slides, and she is suddenly under water. He pulls her up, steadying her as she splutters. She grabs at him.

“Out, I need to get out.”

“It’s alright, Love, I’m here.”

“Out, out, out!” she claws at him in desperation, unable to get her feet under her, unable to escape.

He scoops her up, wetting his shirt to the elbows and hardly noticing. She’s still thrashing in wild panic, so much so that he can hardly hold her. He sets her on her feet, wraps the sheet and his arms around her and holds her tightly to his chest.

“It’s alright, you’re safe. Shhh. It’s alright.”

Eventually she stills, the only sign of her fright is her heavy breathing.

“There, see, it’s alright.” He moves to help her in again, but she shakes her head violently.

“No, no I can’t.” She pushes against him. “Please, I can’t.”

So he continues to hold her. It’s a strange thing to be frightened of, and he doesn’t quite understand. He’s here, isn’t he? He can help her. A memory comes back to him, one he must have buried long ago. He’s running after his mother. Toddling, more like. And the road is slippery with frost and she’s in a hurry. He can’t recall her face, hasn’t been able to for years. But he remembers the grey skirts ahead of him, just out of his reach. And sliding on the ice, skating wildly out of control, the ground coming up to meet him and there’s no way to stop it, there’s nothing he can do to prevent the fall. He remembers the way his stomach flipped, the slam of the cobbled road on his chin.

Walking on ice still makes him nervous. Funny how trauma sticks with you long after all other memory fades away.

“You should take it,” Evelyn says.

“What?” He looks down to find her staring up at him, eyes large. Her hair is wet, plastered to her face.

“The bath. You went to such trouble.” She’s shivering and it takes effort for her to speak through her chattering teeth.

“Naw, I’ll stay with you, Love. You’ve had a fright. Not going to leave you alone now, am I?”

“Please. I couldn’t… I couldn’t bear to see all your efforts go to waste.”

He shakes his head. He’s not the bathing type. A sink and a cloth, that’s more his style. In recent years, anyways. The templars had their own bathhouse and the hot water had been pleasant after a morning’s training, but that was long ago. He’d rather see to her needs.

“Please, Raleigh.” Her tone is so plaintive. He glances at the water. It’s still steaming.

“Alright, if you’ll stay here.” That way he can keep an eye on her, get out if she starts _disappearing_ again. Because that’s what he fears most of all, that she’ll sink back into her own mind and he’ll be unable to reach her.

She nods, clutching the sheet tightly.

Her eyes follow him as he starts undressing. _What does she see?_ he wonders. _A friend? A nurse?_ Does she notice he’s grown thin? Does she notice his skin is tanned to the wrists and around his neck from working in the garden? Or is her mind elsewhere? Whatever the case may be, she doesn’t say anything.

His senses sing as he sinks into the water and he sighs in contentment. She kneels beside him, watches as he fishes out the soap that’s slid down to the bottom of the tub, watches as he lathers and starts to clean himself, watches… he notices her gaze is focused on his middle.

**On his cock. She’s staring at his cock.

His breath catches. He wishes she’d speak. What’s she _thinking_? It’s not like she’s never seen it before. Does it seem smaller now, after so long apart? Is he hairier than he was? What about it has drawn her gaze?

She reaches out tentatively, hesitates, then plunges her hand into the water. He’s still trying to believe what’s happening when her fingers tighten around his shaft.

His skin prickles, instantly gooseflesh marches up his arms and he can feel a blush tinting his neck. She starts to stroke. He groans. _Sweet Maker._ He wasn’t expecting this, this was possibly the very last thing he was expecting. And it’s been so long, it feels so good. He hasn’t even touched himself in weeks and his little soldier comes fully to attention almost instantly. Her grip is exactly right, and her rhythm too. The combination of the hot water, the intoxicating scent of the herbs and her affection is almost enough to push him over the edge right then and there.**

He watches her face. She’s wearing the same look of intense concentration she was when he handed her the trowel. Then, with no warning, she snatches the hand away. She’s stumbling to her feet, whispering an apology. And then she’s flying from the room, gone.

He scrambles out of the tub, sloshing water across the floor. He almost slips as he takes off after her. She’s running down the corridor towards her chamber. But he’s faster. He catches her arm, spins her to press her against the wall.

She’s shaking her head again, eyes screwed shut and he’s panting and light-headed and dripping everywhere.

“Speak to me, please?” What manner of horrors is she running from? His heart crashes violently in his chest. “Did someone…” What happened at that Exalted Council? What didn’t Cullen say? “Did someone…” the question sticks in his throat but he has to get it out. “Did someone _violate_ you?”

Her eyes open. She’s still shaking her head. “No.” Her voice is small. “Yes, but not in the way you mean.”

“How?” If it’s someone he can lay his hands on he will.

Her gaze moves to her stump. “I’m not the same. Things will never be the same.”

She means the arm.

“It’s just an arm,” he says, knowing it’s foolish as he says it but he’s too riled up to stop the words.

“Just an arm?” she chokes.

“Not even an arm. Half an arm.”

“Half a -”

He thinks she pales. It’s hard to tell in the dim light. There’s candlelight coming from her room, and spilling out of the bathroom down the hall. Otherwise he sees only by the last muddy light of the dying day.

“You lost half an arm,” he says. “The rest of you is still here.”

His words are clumsy, he wants to take them back.

“You speak as if it’s nothing!”  
  
“It’s not nothing. I know it’s not nothing.” The roaring of blood in his ears is making it difficult to think. “But it’s not everything, either.”

She looks so frightened. He brushes her cheek. “It’s not everything,” he repeats. “All things may not be as they were, but some things still can be.”

She shifts away from his touch. “You can’t even look at it.”

“That’s nonsense.”

“You avert your gaze from it. It disgusts you.”

“What?” Where in the Void did this idea come from?

“Just now, in there, you couldn’t even look at…” her voice trembles. He’s about to correct her, tell her he was looking at her _face_ , because he was trying to read how she was feeling and she’s so beautiful and…  then she adds. “And you can’t even share a room with it.”

This accusation takes a lot from her, he can tell. Her voice is soft and it trembles and he knows at once it’s been a very long time coming. And he is so stunned by it that his knees feel weak.

“What?”

All he can do is stare at her when she turns her head and looks past him down the corridor, eyes shining. He knows shame, he recognises it in her now. She shouldn’t be ashamed, she has _nothing_ to be ashamed of.

“You think that’s why I keep my own room?” He guesses.

She doesn’t answer. Her silence is confirmation enough.

“I…” it’s so wrong he doesn’t even know how to begin to put it right. How long has she felt this, worried over this, and he didn’t even know? “You should have said something.” Why didn’t she _say something_ ? “That’s not it at all. That’s not even vaguely… I claimed my own room because I… I wanted to give you space, privacy. And I didn’t want to… this is _your_ house. I’m not very well going to invite myself into your bed, take advantage of you like that.”

“Take advantage?” Her eyes cut to his. “How could you think it would be taking advantage?” Her voice rises in pitch. “You slept in my room often enough at Skyhold.”

“But it was still _your_ room.” And there’s more to it than that. “I didn’t want to _assume_. You’ve been through… you’re going through...” he takes a deep breath. “I understand you wanting to keep me - that part of me, of us - at a distance. I didn’t want you to think you were obligated to do anything.”

She doesn’t speak. She’s staring at his chest, her brow furrowed.

He takes the stump as he would take her hand and plants a kiss on it. She jolts, but she doesn’t pull it away. He trails a line of tender kisses up to her shoulder.

“It’s not disgusting,” he repeats against her satiny skin. “It’s the top of your arm. It’s always been there. Why would it disgust me?”

He moves his attentions to her collarbone, licking, kissing and nipping. Then to her neck where he places gentle kisses along the scar tissue.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers. “So beautiful. The most beautiful thing I’ve ever been permitted to touch.”

“Even now?” she breathes.

The question breaks his heart. “Yes, now. Always. Don’t you ever doubt it.”  

**He uncurls her fingers from the sheet and it slips to the floor, and there are her breasts, nipples hard in the cool corridor, waiting for his hot mouth. He descends on her left breast, sucking and flicking his tongue against the hard nub until she whimpers, then switches to the right. Her fingers tangle through his hair. He’s aching for her. Aching in a way he’s never ached before. But he forces himself to stop, he lets the nipple pop out of his mouth.

Despite her attentions in the bathroom, he still needs her confirmation.

He finds it in her flushed face. Her pupils are dilated, her mouth is hanging open. He touches lips with her tentatively. It’s a question. One she responds to hungrily. Her mouth moves against his with wanton desire, her arm hooks around his neck.

And then he’s lost in her, lost in the taste of her, in the thirst to comfort her, in the scent of sage that clings to her.

That kiss is sweet deliverance, an answer to his prayers. He pushes her against the wall, burning lust coursing through him as he lifts her. Her legs lock around him, heels pressing into the small of his back, and she whimpers as his rigid cock rubs against the heat of her core. He wants to take her right here, like this. But this is too important.

She gives a little shriek as he carries her away, towards his room. It’s closer and even though she weighs next to nothing, he’s conscious of his hands digging into her thighs. The bed is narrow, but that doesn’t matter. Not for what he intends to do.

Her wet hair fans out around her as he lays her down. The dusk tints it the colour of honey and there is just enough light to see her expression. His breath leaves his lungs at the look in her eyes. Love, devotion. _Oh, Maker._

There have been good days since he met her. Plenty more than in his life before her. But this day may just be the best. This day he can believe that the Maker hasn’t abandoned them after all, that sweet Andraste watches over him.

He hovers over his Evelyn, taking his time with slow kisses along her jaw, making the moment last. But his _need_ won’t let him hold off long. He meets her in another frantic, feverish kiss. Her fingernails dig into his shoulder and her back arches. He feels for her thighs with one hand, pushes them further apart. He’s lined up, ready, when she gasps, twists away.

 _“_ No, wait.”

She’s breathless and now her eyes are cloaked in shadow. _What’s wrong?_ What did he do?

“My herbs. I don’t have my herbs.”

“Herbs?” He’s thinking sage and rosemary, he’s too bewildered to realise what she means.

She nods. “I can’t have a baby now, not like this.”

_Oh._

_Of course._

Precautions. He never gave much thought to it before, but she must have been taking something back at Skyhold.

He tries to steady his breathing, calm his frantic heart. She’s pushing him away and he sits back trying to process the double blow of their lovemaking being cut short and her no longer wanting him close. But before he can say anything, before he can reassure her, she moves forward, dips her head and takes him in her mouth.

A jolt of both surprise and ecstasy shoots up his spine as her velvet lips close around his hard member. It’s not the first time, but it’s the first time she’s ever done it without his asking, without his _commanding_. Her fingers fasten around the base and she moves them expertly up and down in time with her mouth. He groans, delirious with pleasure.

“Love, you don’t… you don’t have to.”

She answers by pumping harder. He falls backwards, onto his elbows. He’s already so stiff and so sensitive that when she runs her tongue up the underside of his cock he quivers and fists his fingers into the covers. She’s good. She knows exactly what he likes. She runs her tongue in circles around the tip, coaxing sounds from his lips that he’d be ashamed for anyone else to hear.

She raises her eyes, as she takes him further into her mouth. She sucks gently, and her cheeks close around his head and he has to close his eyes because the sensation is so overwhelming. Up and down, at a torturously slow pace. Then she removes him from her mouth and the chilly air is a sharp but not unpleasant contrast. He expects she’s playing, teasing. He waits for her lips to return. When, after a moment, they don’t, he opens his eyes. She’s kneeling opposite him, watching him.

“Is everything alr-”

She cuts off the question by diving forward. At once her arm is around his neck again, her lips are joined to his. He tastes himself and her and she’s climbing onto his lap, mounting him. Her hard nipples brush against his chest as she lowers herself over him.

He should stop her. He knows he should. But he wants her too badly, he wants _this_ too badly. The consequences seem to melt away.

And the opportunity is lost as they’re joined. She’s so wet and so hot that he slides right into her. The last of his self control dissolves as he takes hold of her hips and thrusts.

She lets out a feral cry as she slams down on him. Again, and again. A frenzied, clash of bodies. And he still wants, he still needs, but not just this, not just the completion of this, he wants it all, everything, her room, her house, her life and would a baby be so bad? He’s never imagined that it was something in his grasp to have and now, plunging into her, filling her, wrapped in her, when he was so certain he had lost her, he wants it.

He pushes her back against his pillow, pinning her as he drives himself into her. He can’t hold on much longer, he can’t -

“Pull out,” she pants.

And he does. He does and he sprays across her stomach as his orgasm breaks over him like burning fire and the end of the world. And he’s instantly awash with shame because he almost didn’t. He wanted to plant a seed in her belly, make her his. And he finished so soon. she hasn’t even cum.**

He whimpers, sinking down against her. So many emotions tangle in his mind, in his heart. She holds him close and he realises he’s trembling. She’s kissing his temple and stroking his hair and he clings to her like some sad starved thing because that’s what he is.

He didn’t know how much he needed love until he had it and it was taken away.

And all these weeks he never acknowledged it either. He doesn’t like feeling sorry for himself. There’s no point to it. There was no point dwelling on how much he missed being touched.

“I love you so much,” he says and the words make him feel even more vulnerable. What’s become of him?

“I love you too, Raleigh.”

Her voice washes over him, soothing him like an elfroot balm.

“You need that bath now,” he says. Even as he speaks, he can feel exhaustion clawing at him. An exhaustion that is more than just physical, that has been plaguing him since she left for the Council.

He fights it, reaching down between her legs. He wants to pleasure her. He wants her to finish. She deserves that. She must need that.

But she takes his fumbling hand like she did in that inn, the day she admitted the anchor was consuming her. “Shh, it’s alright.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Penultimate chapter! I was originally going to bundle this one with the next but then it ended up being massive.   
> I'm probably going to post the last full chapter tomorrow night and then a little epilogue with maybe some art? on Thursday.

There is a moment between sleep and wakefulness when Raleigh Samson isn’t sure which is his real life and which is the dream.

His real life is cold and stark, he knows this to be true. Whereas dreams can be warm and vivid and beautiful. 

This particular morning, with rain pattering gently against his window and a warm body pressed up to his, it’s difficult to tell reality from fantasy. He feels that as long as he keeps his eyes closed, he might be able to cling to this cozy happiness regardless. 

“Good morning,” a voice says at his ear. 

A smile pulls at his lips as he realises she _ is  _ here. He is waking up to a life he wants to have. 

Evelyn is curled behind him, bracketing his body with hers. Her arm is draped across his chest and she nuzzles into his neck. 

“Awake before me? That’s unusual,” he says, his voice heavy with sleep. 

“I got hungry.” 

His heart leaps. Her appetite’s returned? “What would you like to eat?” 

She hesitates long enough that he turns around to face her. He finds her wrapped in his big black coat, chewing on her bottom lip. She’s not quite there yet, he realises. She may be feeling physical hunger, but that doesn’t mean she the idea of the food itself is appealing. He cups her cheek. “I’ll make us oats, does that sound good?”

She nods, offers him a smile. He sits up and the bath sheet falls from him. She must have fetched it and tucked him in. 

“You got up last night?” he asks. 

“To wash, yes.” 

Of course she did. He came all over her and then promptly fell asleep. He swallows. As if sensing his shame, she wraps her arm around him and presses her cheek to his back. “You don’t mind me sleeping in your coat, do you? You were on the blankets and I didn’t want to disturb you.” 

“No, Love. ‘Course not. Although you should have. Disturbed me, I mean. If you were cold.” 

“It smells like you.”

“Hmm?” He looks over his shoulder at her. 

“The coat.” she offers another smile and he flushes with warmth at the thought that that could be a comfort to her. No one’s ever commented on his  _ smell _ before.  

She is wearing just the coat, and he can see her naked breast through the opening. He reaches to touch it. But as happy as he is, the more he wakes, the more he remembers the night before, the more familiar cold guilt creeps through him. 

“I owe you an apology,” he whispers.

“Whatever for?” 

Why is it so difficult to say? “You were in need last night and I was selfish.” That’s the first thing. The easiest thing. 

She shakes her head. “I needed  _ you _ , and that’s what you gave me.”

“Be that as it may… you didn’t want, with your herbs, and I…”

She places her index finger on his lips. “I seem to recall that decision was mine.” 

He takes her hand. “I’ll get you herbs this morning. Which do you need? Do you get them from the market?”

She laughs softly and it’s such a beautiful sound that he pauses in his panic to listen to it. “You’d go and ask some crotchety old lady for women’s herbs?” 

He feels the need to remind her, “I used to buy lyrium. I hardly think this experience could be  _ more _ uncomfortable.” No doubt anyone at the stall who happened to overhear him would twitter and laugh, but that doesn’t bother him. 

“You’re not that anymore,” she says seriously. “I won’t have you doing my dirty work.”

“It’s hardly dirty work.” 

“Some would say it is. Denying the Maker’s will. You haven’t heard that?” 

He shakes his head. He still doesn’t mind. He’s watching her beautiful face over his shoulder, wrapped in her. He would do anything for her. 

“Besides,” she says. “People will know you. They’ll talk. It’s best I go. I’ll take care of it.”

He takes a deep breath. If she’s ready to leave the house, he’s hardly going to argue with her about it. But that means the time has come to admit to the other thing. 

His eyes drop automatically to her belly. He can see the gentle curve of it through the coat’s parting and he turns so he can lay a hand against it. 

“There was a moment last night when… when I... I thought maybe having children together would not be such a terrible thing.”

Her face clouds, of course it does. “Raleigh…”

“I know you’re still getting used to how things are now,” he doesn’t mention the arm. “It was a selfish thought, and one I feel I must apologise for. Subjecting you to that would not be fair, it would not be right. At least not at the moment. I know that.” 

“Raleigh…” her voice is sorrowful. 

“You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted to… well I was out of line.”

Her big brown eyes are so filled with emotion that he thinks she’s going to cry. 

“I understand if it’s something you never want. Especially with me.” 

“Raleigh… the world is ending.” She looks away, withdrawing into herself again and he feels a stab of fear. _ Don’t go, please don’t go.  _ “Solas…” she continues. “When Solas... How much did Cullen tell you?”

Samson remembers vaguely something about him actually being some elf god, but none of that had mattered. Only what he’d done to _ her _ . “He wants to bring back the age of the old elves… or something?”

“He wants to tear down the veil.”

“Oh.”

He had wanted that once. Now it’s unthinkable. There’s a bitter taste at the back of his throat. “Well, can’t you stop him?”

She laughs at that, but it’s not the musical laugh he heard earlier. This one is filled with undirected hatred. “Haven’t I given enough?” 

His insides jolt. He pulls her into his arms and holds her to his chest and he kisses her temple and strokes her hair. “Yes, of course you have. Of course,” he says.

Her head is still buried against his chest when she says softly, “You’d make a good father, Raleigh. I just don’t think it’s fair to bring a baby into a doomed world.”

“You… you really think I would?” 

“You’ve been caring for _me_ , haven’t you?” 

 

* * *

 

 

Rain batters against the windows and there’s no chance of going into the garden today. Samson carries a tray up to his room, treading softly. Evelyn fell back asleep in his arms and he’s hesitant to disturb her. Still, she did say she was hungry. 

 

Steam rises from the twin bowls on the tray, mingling in the cold air. He sets it on the bedside table and leans down to wake her with a kiss to the cheek. She turns just as his lips are about to meet her skin and catches his mouth with her own instead. 

“Thought I smelled porridge,” she says when he finally pulls away. 

He’s brought her warm oats, yes, but he’s also brought her something else. Her eyes fall on the tray and she sits up, staring at it quizzically. 

The bundle of letters is thick, thick enough that he can barely hold it between his thumb and forefinger. “It’s your mail,” he says. “I thought we might sort through it while you eat, if you’re feeling up to it?”

“So many letters.” She frowns, her brow furrows. 

“Don’t worry, more than half are from Cullen.” A slight exaggeration, but only a  _ slight _ one. 

“They must wonder what’s become of me.”

“They know, Love. I responded on your behalf. I mean, I haven’t read the letters. I just, well I let them know you’d get back to them as soon as you were able.” 

“I… thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”   
She still seems concerned, so he takes the top one off the pile and passes it to her. “Here’s the first from Cullen.”

She fidgets, looking away from the letter, at her lap. “You open it.” 

He doesn’t really understand, but is happy to oblige. He tears it with a brass letter opener from the study. He tries once again to pass her the letter but her worried eyes meet his. “Will you read it to me?” 

“I, um, I don’t have much of a reading voice, I’m afraid.”

“Please.”

“As you wish.” He clears his throat. “Dear Evelyn. I trust this letter finds you well and that you find your lodgings in Kirkwall to your satisfaction.” Samson glances up. “He’s dull as dishwater, isn’t he?” 

That comment wrests a smile from her. He returns his attention to the letter. “Hightown is lovely at this time of year. The ivy should be at its finest. I always enjoyed the way the sun-” Samson rolls his eyes. “Do you really want me to read this?” 

She makes a small snorting sound that sounds a lot like laughter she’s completely failed to suppress. “Don’t stop now, you’re pulling the most adorable expressions.”

“Adorable?” He doesn’t know whether to be flattered or offended. 

“Go on,” she prompts. 

He sighs and picks up where he left off. “I always enjoyed the way the sun caught the mountain in the morning leading up to Firstfall. And those spectacular ocean sunsets… no doubt it’s familiar to you, of course. It’s not far from where you grew up. How strange that so many of us should end up right back where we started. You and Samson - I hope he’s treating you well -” Samson rolls his eyes at this one too. “Varric, Vivienne, Dorian, even Josephine. Leliana’s back in Orlais, I’m back in Ferelden and even Blackwall’s joined the Wardens - for real, this time - out that side of the world. I can’t say I don’t miss the Inquisition. What we accomplished was truly extraordinary, but I am enjoying being back with my family. I’m going to see my land tomorrow - the land Cassandra...” Samson sighs. “Oh, he’s gone and crossed that one out and written Divine Victoria because of course he has. Maker forbid he refer to his friend by anything other than her title. Anyways, land  _ Divine Victoria _ granted him. He says he’ll go see it in the morning and let you know how things progress. Hopes you’re well etcetera etcetera.”

“Land?” Evelyn asks. 

“Yea, he mentioned it before he left the Inquisition. He wants to build a sanctuary for templars recovering from lyrium addiction and those whose minds are gone. Typical, noble, Cullen. Your friend the Divine gave him some Chantry land near his sister’s farm. I imagine he’ll be in his element.” Samson hesitates before saying the next. He returns his eyes to the letter. “He, uh, invited you to live there with him. And his family.”

She doesn’t say anything at first and he eventually has to look up at her, try to read how she feels about that. She’s looking thoughtful. “Seems the kind of work that might suit you well, Raliegh.”  

“What, helping burnt-out Templars?”

“Isn’t that what you were trying to do when we first met?”

The irony hits him with such force that he starts laughing. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”    
He tucks the letter away and reaches for the next. “This one’s from Montilyet. Would you like me to do the prissy accent too, my Lady?” 

Evelyn stretches out, propping her head on her hand. “Would you?” 

“Maker, why do I put these ideas into your head?” But secretly he’s glad of the opportunity to make her laugh. He clears his throat, hitches his voice up an octave and begins, “Dearest Evelyn, I hope your first few days in the Free Marches have been pleasant-”

He has to stop because Evelyn is laughing so hard he doubts she can even hear the letter. She waves for him to continue. Montilyet’s letter isn’t actually all that interesting. She’s gone back to Antiva, where she is due to marry some Merchant Prince, thus securing her family’s wealth. She does not seem upset about this arranged marriage, rather excited at the prospect of improving her family’s prospects and restoring her house to what it once was. But Evelyn is soon laughing so hard that she complains of a stitch in her side and they take a break to eat. 

The next letter is another from Cullen, explaining in great detail and obvious excitement the layout of his sanctuary and the most recent interactions with his (very advanced, apparently) nephew. Then a letter from Sera of all people. They puzzle over that one for some time as it’s covered in doodles and what looks like a shopping list. In the end they give up and put it back in the envelope. Another from Cullen, who Evelyn remarks told her once was very bad at keeping up correspondence. 

Clearly not so when it comes to Evelyn. Samson recalls the way he fretted the day Evelyn sealed herself in her room, the way his entire face lit up when he had the opportunity to dance with her, and he thinks she will always be the exception. 

This letter mentions that he heard from Samson and that he hopes she feels better soon. “If ever you require friendship or company, or even a vacation, my home is always open to you. To both of you.” 

This last bit surprises Samson. Perhaps Cullen really does consider him a friend? Imagine that. 

Another letter from Montilyet. This is a wedding invitation in silver ink.The date is still a few months away, but the ex-Ambassador is nothing if not efficient. 

Then, when Samson reaches for the next, he realises what it is and hurriedly tucks it under the pile. The move isn’t lost on Evelyn, unfortunately. 

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.”

“Didn’t seem like nothing.”

“It’s not important. Don’t worry about it, Love.”

“If you think it’s something that will upset me…”

“No, it’s not. It’s not… for you.”

Instead of reassuring her, this seems to pique her interest even more. “You mean it’s for you? Who’s writing to you?”

Oh, Maker. The last thing he wants is for her to feel she has reason to be suspicious. Wordlessly, he hands her the envelope.

This one, she accepts without protest. 

He watches her eyes go large as she reads the return address. Sahrnia. 

“Is this…?” she asks. “When did you send your letter?”

The letter she convinced him to write. “Shortly after we arrived here. I’d been working on it since you suggested it.” 

“Why haven’t you opened this?”

That’s the question, isn’t it? Why should one crisp envelope be so terrifying? He’s considered it many times, even come as close as sliding the opener in. Only to lose his nerve. 

“I didn’t expect a reply,” he responds quietly. “I imagine it’s nothing good. Lists of the dead, you know? People who mattered to her who I… I… well you know what I did. And I just, with you the way you were and everything, I lacked courage, I suppose.”

“Oh, Raleigh.” 

There’s that look of sympathy. The one he hates. He scowls. 

“What about if I open it for you? I’ll read it first. Then, if it’s bad, you don’t have to read it?”

His heart starts hammering at the very thought. He doesn’t want to be weak. He should open it himself. But he finds himself nodding. Her idea is a good one. A  _ safe _ one. 

Once she’s managed to open the latter, with the help of the letter-opener and her teeth, it takes her only a few seconds to scan the creamy paper it’s written on. She passes the letter back to him and nods. 

He swallows, steals himself, and reads the single line written in a neat, slanted hand. 

His hands are shaking. 

“That’s it?” He turns over and looks at the back. He sent her four or five pages. That can’t be it. Evelyn takes one of his trembling hands in hers as he reads the letter again.

 

_ Dear Ser. Samson.  _

 

_ I hope you find peace.  _

 

_ Regards,  _

_ Emelia Mae  _

* * *

 

 

The rain is still pouring down a few days later when Samson rushes downstairs to open the door. 

A small, drenched, figure stumbles in. “Bout time!” Her thick Ferelden voice scolds him. “Where’s she at? Heard this was her place? She still living with you, yea?” 


	15. Chapter 15

Samson stares at the dripping elf now making a puddle in the middle of the hallway. Sera’s hair is plastered to her face and she’s wearing what looks like a patchwork quilt but is probably a poncho of some sort. Her bow and quiver are both secured across her back and she carries a large sack over her shoulder. 

“What you staring at? I sent word ahead, yea? All proper and 'erything?”

Her strange letter. “Is that what that was?” Samson asks. 

She traipses into the sitting room, leaving a trail of mud. “What did you think it was?”

“It looked like a supply manifest,” Evelyn’s voice comes from the top of the stairs. 

Sera looks up at her and grins. “Hello you!” 

Evelyn is dressed in a housecoat, her hair hanging loose. With the rain, she’s spent most of the week in bed but at least she’s been reading and replying to letters. A definite improvement on her usual routine. She’s not really dressed for company, but he suspects Sera doesn’t care. 

“And naw, it’s a code, innit? Just in case this one decided to go snooping.” She gestures to Samson with her thumb. 

“Well you overestimate my intelligence,” Evelyn says as she descends the stairs. 

“Drat.” Sera dumps her sack on a nearby table. “See, thing is I was looking for a place to stay while I’m in town. I like the tavern an all, but it’s not really right for meetings.”  
  
“Meetings?” Evelyn asks.   
  
“Yea, _meetings_.” She emphasizes the word, then looks at Samson significantly, then back at Evelyn. “Alright if I crash here?” 

Samson is interested to hear Evelyn’s answer. It’s not like they lack the space, but he's not sure if she's ready for company just yet. 

“Raleigh?” she asks. 

She’s looking at  _ him _ . “What?” 

“Well, what do you think?”

“You’re asking my opinion?”   
  
Sera is as surprised as he is. “Yea you’re asking _his_ opinion?”

“It’s his home too,” Evelyn states.

Sera raises her eyebrows and looks at Samson again. “Well excuse me, ain’t you moving up in the world? Lord of the house now?”

He moves his mouth but no sound comes out. It’s not his house, not on the deed. He lives here to look after her. And to love her. And to be with her. He hasn’t even been into most of the rooms. 

Evelyn misunderstands his silence. “Would you like to talk about this in the kitchen?” 

He shakes his head. “No, she’s welcome. Anyone’s welcome so long as you want them here.”

Sera laughs. “Aw well isn’t that adorable?” 

She marches over to her sack, opens it up and sticks her head in. He half expects her to start pulling out her belongings and setting up house right there in the sitting room. Instead, she hauls out a smaller sack with odd protrusions. 

“Brought you a gift. Still owe you for Satinalia. And, you know, that saving the world thing.” She passes Evelyn the bag. It drips on the carpet as she descends the final few steps. 

“It’s heavy.”   
  
“Well go on, open it.” 

Samson is tempted to go help her, but he’s trying to do less of that unless she actually asks. She manages to balance it on the back of an upholstered chair and peer into it. “What is…” she reaches in and draws something out. 

It’s a crossbow. 

“Sera, you know I’m a mage, right?”

Sera waves that off. “Yea, yea, magic smagic.”  
  
“I appreciate the thought, but I can’t use this.” She swallows. Can Sera really not see what’s happened to her? 

“‘Course you can,” the elf says. 

“I really can’t. I only have… well…” she waves her stump. Samson half expects Sera to notice it with surprise, but she shakes her head. 

“I know that, silly. I was there, remember? That’s the whole point of this. I had it designed specially, see?” 

She steps up to Evelyn and points out a part of the contraption. Straps and a leather cuff. And Samson realises what it is. A crossbow to fit over her stump. 

The air seems to grow thick. Evelyn doesn’t move and Samson’s entire being is focused on her, not sure what her reaction will be. 

She eyes it curiously.  “My adventuring days are done, Sera.” It’s a whisper. 

“Why?” the elf asks. “Just because of the Inquisition? You and I had an agreement, didn’t we?”

“That was before…”

“Yea, well this solves that doesn’t it? And I’m sure there’s spells you can do one-handed if it came to it.”

“I’m a knight enchanter.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means I use a sword.” She waves the crossbow in clear annoyance. “It means I don’t use this.”   
  
“Well obviously you don’t because I just brought it to you. But you will, in the future.”  
  
“What future? Solas will destroy the world!”  
  
“Naw, he won’t.”

Evelyn closes her eyes as if praying for patience. 

Sera puts a hand on her arm. “We got this. Come to the meeting with me tomorrow, yea? All sorts of plans underway, just like always.” 

When Evelyn opens her eyes, they settle on Samson. What is she looking for? Assurance? Permission? Encouragement?

“She’s given enough,” he says softly. 

Sera spins, as if she forgot he was there. “Hey, no one asked you!” 

His temper rises. “Leave her in peace, will you?” His voice is a whip. “She’s said she doesn’t want your contraption, leave her be.” 

“No, I’ll go,” Evelyn says unexpectedly. Then she nods, decisively, and there’s no more discussion. 

 

Later, after he’s made up his old room for Sera and put a stew on the boil, Samson overhears them talking in the library. 

He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but then there’s a  _ thwang  _ and a  _ thump _ . He peers around the open door with his heart in his throat. There’s a bolt buried in the one bookshelf and Sera and Evelyn are sitting side-by-side on the desk at the opposite end of the room. Evelyn is wearing her crossbow. 

“Always aim higher than your target, yea?” Sera instructs. 

Another  _ thwang _ , another  _ thump _ , and the crossbow tears into a painting of the mansion’s previous occupant. The women laugh. 

“Serves him right, you can tell he’s a wanker just by looking at him can’t you?” Sera comments. 

“I’m still not sure about this,” Evelyn says. “Do you even still want me as one of your Jennies, like this?”

“Look, being a Jenny isn’t about being all lah de dah and perfect. It’s about connections, right? And protecting the little folk. This thing that’s coming, it puts a whole lotta little folk in danger. First thing to fall in any great war, they are. You never got round to choosing your city, but Kirkwall will do nicely, won’t it? Besides, place like this needs servants. No one will think twice about People coming and going.”

Very little of what Sera says makes sense to Samson. He watches Evelyn fidgeting with a bolt she’s supposed to be loading. 

“I’m fine here with just Raleigh.”

His heart stutters.

“Raleigh is it now? Not Samson? Not dark servant of Coryphyface?”

Even though Samson’s guts start churning at that, Evelyn smiles. “No, just Raleigh now.”

“You’re fond of him, then?” there’s a note of incredulity in the question. 

“Oh, you noticed that, did you?” Evelyn teases. 

“Could be you keep him around to answer the door and make the stew. Does he serve in the bedchamber too or-”

“Sera!”

“So yes, then?”

Colour rises to Evelyn’s cheeks. “Yes, then,” she says with a coy smile. 

Sera nudges her in the side and laughs. “Knew there had to be a reason. But point is, evil right hand to Coryphalis or no, he can’t run a house this size himself. And before you say anything, I know you don’t want folks around all looking and talking. But you’ve gotta decide what’s important. You can hide here in your little hole, all comfortable, no little comments ‘oh look at that arm’, ‘dreadful thing’, whatever. You can waste away and pretend everything’s not going to shit outside. Be like every other wealthy tosser who’d rather not get your hands dirty. Or you can stand up and fight with the rest of us. And don’t tell me you can’t because I just watched you put a bolt through that man’s face.” 

Samson wonders whether he should step in. As Evelyn said, _ she’s given enough _ . What more does Sera want from her? 

Evelyn frowns. “I thought you of all people would approve of me not keeping servants.”

“What?” Sera looks affronted. “No, never. People need jobs, right? Long as you treat them well and pay them decent. Tell you what, I can draw up a list for you. People you can trust...” She stops talking, narrows her eyes at Evelyn. “That’s if you’re still in? Because if you’re not, if you’re gonna hide away here, I’d rather pack up and leave.”

Evelyn fidgets with the bolt again. “Do you think we really can win this time? You didn’t see what he did… turning Qunari to stone with a flash of his eyes.”

“So he’s big and powerful.” Sera blows a raspberry. 

“He’s using People too, Sera.”

“Yea, but not  _ my _ People.” 

“How can you even know that?”

Sera turns on the desk suddenly, to face Evelyn. “Look, if you’re just going to keep finding problems maybe it is better you stay here?”

That startles her. She stares at Sera, swallows. Once again Samson is tempted to step in. 

Then in a small voice, Evelyn says. “I want to have a future.” 

He breathes out a breath he didn’t even realise he was holding. Just a few short weeks ago, he couldn’t even imagine her uttering those words.

“Good!” Sera says. She hops off the table, and points to the portrait again. “See if you can get him in the nose!” 

 

* * *

 

Samson feels unsettled the whole way through dinner, but he can’t say why. Sera calls him dour and makes sly comments about his past. And perhaps Evelyn thinks it’s that that upsets him, because at one point she reaches across the table to take his hand. And eventually she tells Sera plainly to pipe down. Which both startles and delights the rogue, and she starts making kissing noises like a child. 

It’s late by the time they’re getting ready for bed. He picks up the brush, ready for their nightly routine. But instead of kneeling in front of him like usual, Evelyn takes the brush from him and offers him a smile. “I’ll do it.”

And he knows then exactly why he wishes he hasn’t overheard that conversation, hadn’t opened the door to that strange elf. Things are going to change, have already changed. 

_ I don’t want to lose you _ he thinks, biting down on his tongue before he can say the pathetic words. He came to this house with her because she needed him to. And now she’s… well, she doesn’t. And that’s _ good _ , because it means she can fight off those demons Vivienne warned him about. And it means she can take care of herself. And it means she can be the hero she was always meant to be. It’s good and he should be happy. But it frightens him too.  

Not long ago, he was a spare part, a caged monkey doing tricks while she ran the world. He would never deny her that power if she has the chance to seize it again, but what happens to him? What happens to _them_? 

 

* * *

  

The rains stop long enough for Samson to go to market the next morning. He takes his time, selecting the best fruit and vegetables, choosing some new seeds and picking out a second trowel. This last is a hopeful purchase. Even though a deep fear in his chest tells him that Evelyn won’t be gardening with him again anytime soon. Still, it makes him feel happy to look at it. It has within it the potential of many days like that one when she joined him outside and they worked the earth shoulder-to-shoulder. 

Nothing seems amiss when he opens the door to the mansion. He’s halfway to the kitchen when he hears voices. Not Evelyn and Sera.  _ Other _ voices. 

“Evelyn?”

No answer. 

Fear grips him, tight and cold. He can’t find a weapon - did he even bring any from Orlais? So he takes the trowel. He follows the sound. Whoever it is, they’re upstairs. He creeps up the stairs, so carefully that the wood doesn’t even creak beneath his feet. 

The voices are coming from the library. Did someone break in? Do they want the paintings and ornaments that adorn the walls of that room? They can have them. They can have everything. Long as they don’t hurt Evelyn. 

He holds his breath as he presses his back to the door. It is so thick and heavy that the voices are muffled, even here. He’s outnumbered, practically unarmed. But he’s a trained templar. He was the leader of a great army once. He will have to rely on his instincts and the element of surprise. 

_ One _ deep breath t _ wo, three _ ! He slams the door open and leaps into the room. 

“Don’t you lay a hand on-!” He brandishes the trowel. 

A circle of people turns to look at him. 

He’s still scanning the room for Evelyn when he starts to recognise some of the faces. 

Leliana, Scout Harding, Varric…

“What’s going on, what’s happening?” His chest is still rising and falling rapidly and he can feel himself colouring. 

Sera is the first to respond. She starts howling with laughter and he sees her at the edge of the room, slapping her thighs in amusement. 

And there’s Evelyn. She’s hurrying towards him, her plum-coloured robes swishing elegantly around her ankles. She takes the trowel from his hand and kisses his cheek right there in front of everyone and draws him against her chest in a hug.  “This is my fault. I should have left a note when we started before you returned.”

“Sera’s meeting…” he guesses, belatedly. He’d assumed that whatever the elf was up to, it was something nefarious enough to happen at night and away from the house. Now he wants to sink through the floor in humiliation. 

Evelyn pulls away. “Raleigh, may I present the Kirkwall branch of the new Inquisition.”

There are other familiar faces there, people whose names he doesn't know, and some whose he does. Anise is sitting at the far end of the room. Smetty’s there too. And there’s a smattering of folks from the old Inquisition. The bearded Warden Blackwall, Iron Bull and his Chargers, and the bodyguard who accompanied them to Sharnia.

“Best not call us that,” Leliana corrects Evelyn. 

“Yes,” she agrees soberly, “best we don’t have a name at all.”

She places the trowel on a nearby shelf and takes Samson’s hand, guiding him further into the room. 

“I should…” he stammers. “I… chores.” He doesn’t think for a moment that he’s meant to be there, but Evelyn takes him to a seat beside her and he realises it must have been empty, waiting for him. 

“Now we’re all here, I’d like to discuss the latest report out of Tevinter,” Leliana says. 

 

As everyone is clearing out of the room after the meeting, Varric hurries up to them. “Hey, Red. You still looking for work?” 

Evelyn raises her eyebrows but doesn’t comment. 

Samson shifts uneasily. And he thought this day could not get any more awkward. 

“Depends what.” 

“Well, I spoke with Curly and he said you were handling paperwork for the Inquisition. Turns out there’s a need for paper-pushers up at the Keep.” Varric offers a smile and a shrug. 

That was not the kind of work he was expecting. “You sure? I thought something more along the lines of…” he glances at Evelyn. “Fish gutting.” 

He means mercenary work but doesn’t want to say it in front of her. 

“Well, I  _ can _ keep an ear out if that’s more up your alley…”

“He doesn’t need work.” Evelyn looks at Samson, frowning. Her hand slips into his again. “You don’t need to work, Raleigh.”

“Yes, he does,” Varric says. His eyes are locked on Samson in that discomforting way. 

“If this is about the money…” Evelyn says. 

Varric laughs, “It’s not about the money. It’s about getting him on his feet now you’re on yours.”

“I’m on my feet,” Raleigh says. Is this to do with the trowel incident? Does Varric think he’s gone insane?

Varric pats his shoulder and shakes his head. “Come see me at the Keep, okay? It will do you good. Trust me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's almost it! There's still a short little epilogue coming tomorrow. Thanks so much for reading :)


	16. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the little epilogue and art I promised. I've also included a playlist at the bottom of music I listened to while writing just in case anyone is interested (I'm always interested in this, but I might be strange in that respect!) Some of the songs match lyrics with the story and some are more about the overall mood. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading and for all the lovely comments :)

 

_~Some months later ~_

 

The first frost has fallen and Samson takes extra care with his steps along the dock, nervous of slipping. The peaks of the mountains are white, but there won’t be actual snow in Kirkwall itself. This non-committal frost is the worst that Kirkwall gets.

Still, it’s cold. Cold enough to make the chore of going to get papers signed at the Gallows even more unpleasant than it would have been otherwise.

Of course, that wasn’t the true reason he was there. But everyone knows he works for the Viscount, so delivering paperwork to the new Circle for Varric was a good cover for getting hold of Vivienne’s latest report (now tucked safely in his coat pocket).

He tosses a silver to one of the beggars he passes on the way into Lowtown, but his mind’s on his garden. This frost is not good. Not at all. He’s going to have to cover whatever’s survived this chilly evening in hessian and hope for the best. The bulbs should be fine but his heart aches when he thinks of Evelyn’s tiny apricot tree. They planted late and the frost is early. It’s going to take a lot of love and care to see out the winter.

He pulls his big black coat tighter around himself and wonders when she’ll be home.

She’s in the Hanged Man cellar gathering the latest from her Jennies. These meetings can go on a while depending on what they’ve found. Perhaps he should stop and see if he can scrounge up any of that cocoa she likes so much? Might make the evening a little warmer. He’s about to head up to bazaar when he hears a tiny sound from his left.

His ears prick. His senses are at once alert. Years of training have honed them to identify almost every sound Kirkwall can produce, but this is something different. It’s a… squeak?

Curious, he follows the sound down one of the dark streets. This is probably not the wisest course of action, considering he's unarmed. But the sound is too disconcerting to ignore. It’s a little like… crying?

He finds himself at the mouth of the alleyway that leads to his old spot. The sound is louder now. Definitely a mewling. Could it be... is that how newborns sound? A new urgency clutches at his heart. No one would be cruel enough to leave a baby out here on a night as cold as this? Surely? 

He hunts around desperately, the sound drawing him right to the edge of the canal.

But he can’t see it. He can’t find it.

Unless…

His mouth goes dry with horror.

Unless the sound is coming from the canal itself.

He drops to his haunches and peers into the gathering shadows. There. A shape. Bobbing in the gunky water.

It’s not a baby. It’s a sack.

And then he knows what the sound is and he sees it, a tiny little body paddling for dear life and screaming. Not mewling, but _mewing_. And he’s stripping off his coat and his warm winter boots and, without so much as thinking about it, he dives in.

The shock of the cold tears the breath from his lungs and for a moment he’s floundering as desperately as the little creature, but then he manages to heave in air and stroke towards it. It’s all he can do to keep afloat, fingers numb, and snatch it out of the muck and onto his head, because that’s the only part of him reliably above the water. He reaches for the bag - to check - and finds only cold corpses.

The kitten digs its claws into his scalp as he swims to safety and hauls himself up onto the bank.

It’s quite something to untangle the tiny little claws from his hair. He’s shivering too hard to be much use and the poor little cat is too terrified to see reason. Eventually he is able to hold it up in front of him. In the dimming light he sees that it’s ginger.

_Like the cat in Sahrnia._

“There there,” he tells the brave little thing.”You’re a little survivor, aren’t ya? Well, the danger’s passed. You’re safe now.”

He hugs it to him as he scrambles up on unsteady legs. It fights him, tearing at his hands and biting his fingers with tiny little teeth that in all honesty don’t do all that much.

The only way Samson can eventually get the little mite to to calm down is placing it into one of his coat pockets. The outside pockets are big enough that the kitten disappears completely from view into a safe little cocoon of warmth where, he presumes, it curls up and feels sorry for itself.

 

As Samson approaches the manor house, he becomes less certain about how Evelyn will react to this latest addition to the family.

She’s a busy woman. To keep up appearances, they’ve hired some staff, as Sera suggested, but Evelyn’s also started attending those dreadful society dos and she’s on the board of almost every local charity. She might find the kitten an annoyance. 

It’s probably not even old enough to be away from its mother. Someone might have to feed it, rear it by hand. And he works all day. 

He could ask Linda, their cook, but Linda is very particular about which duties she will and will not perform. Taking care of kittens? Not in her contract.

He frets as he unlocks the door and is a little relieved to find that Evelyn isn’t home yet and the servants have left for the day. Good. He has the house to himself. He can think. He stokes the sitting room fire to life and his pocket shifts and hisses as he bends down. Fine, no sitting. He’ll stand and wait for her. Stand by the fire and dry off and defrost.

The feeling comes back to his fingers eventually and when his pocket has been concerningly still for some time, he pats it. It wriggles and needle-claws poke through the fabric to have a go at him. Feisty little bastard.

Samson paces, going over exactly how he will explain the situation. He will not use the words _feral_ , or _wild_.  _Tiny_ and _helpless_ might do.

His hair is dry and whisping around his face by the time he hears the door. He stops, startled, even though this is exactly what he's been waiting for. His prepared speech flies from his mind.

Evelyn gives him a big, broad smile as she comes in and hangs up her coat. Her hair is pinned up and she’s wearing a deep blue set of robes that compliment her colouring. It feels like days since he last saw her, although it’s only been a few hours.

“Waiting for me?”

“Yes,” he says. It’s a little strangled sound.

She looks at him strangely. She's picked up that there's something amiss.

“How was the meeting?” he asks. His voice still isn’t cooperating. Well, that’s what he gets for jumping into a freezing canal.

She tilts her head, moves slowly towards him. “It was good…”

He dances away from her. He doesn’t want her to smell the canal on him before he’s had a chance to explain.

“Raleigh, what’s going on?”

“I… um… I have something to ask you.”

She stops in her tracks.

His hand moves to hover over the warm lump in his pocket, considering just pulling out the kitten. But he thinks better of it and snaps his hand away. The last thing he needs to make his case is for the thing to bite him.

“What kind of a something?” she asks, brow furrowed in suspicion.

He swallows. “It might change things around here a bit.”

Her eyes widen at that.

“Wait, don’t say anything.” His voice is still trembling from the cold. “I should just get this out, or I’ll probably lose my nerve.”

He reaches for the kitten again.

“Yes,” she says.

The kitten mewls as his fingers brush it.

Her eyebrows shoot up and her hand flies to cover her mouth. And it takes him a second to realise - Because at first he thinks she’s reacting to the tiny little paw that’s emerged from his pocket to bat at his hand - and then he grasps what she said and his mind plays back the last few minutes.

And then his heart kicks and he’s looking at her face, trying to read it.

“Did you just…?” he asks.

Her eyes go larger and he’s almost certain he’s right. Slowly he asks again. “Did you just… agree to marry me?”

“Raleigh,” her muffled voice comes from behind her hand. “I completely misunderstood, I thought-”

And he does what any sane man in his situation would do. He gets down on one knee and halls out the bewildered kitten, offering it up to her.

It’s backwards, just like everything else in their relationship.

She’s already said yes.

“Evelyn Trevelyan, will you… will you... would you consider... becoming my wife?”  

 _Wife_. It's a word that's forever been reserved for others, not him. That he could request it of this astonishing woman, that she might actually agree, is something that only ever occurred to him in his wildest fantasies. 

Yet now she nods, eyes welling with emotion, and she takes the little orange ball of fluff and hugs it against her chest and Samson knows that it will thrive in her care, just as he has.

 

_END_

 

**Shield of Shame playlist**

_Samson (feat. Elizaveta & Nick Stoubis) - Raney Shockne_  
_The Plains/Bitter Dancer - Fleet Foxes_  
_In My World - The Moody Blues_  
One by One All Day - The Shins  
_Grown Ocean - Fleet Foxes_  
_Meanwhile - The Moody Blues_  
_Palms (feat. Liz Lawrence) - Allman Brown_  
_A Comet Appears - The Shins_  
_Fires - Allman Brown_  
_Seed Song - Cerys Matthews_


End file.
